


First Year at the Louvre

by miladys-winter (lykxxn)



Series: The Louvre Grammar and Boarding School [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Adventure, Alchemy, Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Angst, Aramis has a teeny tiny crush, Bigotry & Prejudice, Bullying, Canonical Character Death, Childhood Friends, Christmas, Constance is Bonacieux's sister, Constance-Milady friendship, Crushes, Disabled Character, Disabled Treville, Documents, Elixir Of Life, Family, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Halloween, Halloween Costumes, Hurt/Comfort, I put Marsac in!!, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Louis is a Good Friend, Magic, Milady is a sassy eleven year old, Mystery, Papa Treville, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Privilege, Secrets, Snooping, Snowball Fight, So much has changed over the past year in terms of plot, Spying, Suspicions, Terminal Illnesses, Veterans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-03-23 02:19:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 21,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3750874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lykxxn/pseuds/miladys-winter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>‘Everything in this school is a secret for a reason. Harthouse didn’t want anyone to find things out, and he hid them. Maybe we should just leave them alone.’</i><br/>When eleven-year-old d’Artagnan starts at the Louvre Grammar and Boarding School, he doesn’t expect to be caught in a quest for truth about the most secretive man in all of France.<br/>There is the ambitious troublemaker Milady and quiet bookworm Constance, both of whom have secrets of their own. And then there are the Inseparables: large, friendly orphan Porthos; witty, sarcastic Athos; and humorous prankster Aramis. Finally, there is Rochefort and Βοnacieux, both of whom have a strong dislike for d’Artagnan and his friends; and sullen Religious Education teacher Monsieur Richelieu, who immediately clashes with d’Artagnan and his friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Before You Read

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the Harry Potter series, and Enid Blyton's Malory Towers series. Summary is a close replica of most of the blurbs on the back of the Malory Towers books.  
> Part of this fanfiction will be influenced by Dumas' _The Three Musketeers_ as well as the BBC adaptation, so there may be some changes for those of you who haven't read the book.
> 
> I made Constance the sister of Bonacieux mostly for the purpose of giving her a surname, since her maiden name is never stated in Dumas' novel.  
> Louis and Anne are given the surnames Bourbon and Habsburg respectively, referring to their royal houses.
> 
> [Summary edited 23/4/16.]

I started this fanfic when I was fifteen. My writing style has improved greatly since then, and I am considering a rewrite (although this will probably not happen for sometime between a few months and over two years).

Therefore, I ask you to please take the events of this fanfic with a pinch of salt.


	2. La Grammaire Louvre et Pensionnat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Chapter formatting edited 2/1/16]

D’Artagnan clutched firmly onto his suitcase, staring in wonder at the huge steam engine before him. His father clasped his shoulder gently with one hand. ‘Isn’t it wonderful,’ he said softly. ‘I thought the same way about it when I was your age.’ He looked his son down, from neatly combed hair down to newly shined shoes. Alexandre d’Artagnan straightened his son’s yellow and navy tie. ‘Your _mère_ was in Sirius. Be proud, Charles.’

‘And what about you, Papa? What House were you in?’ asked d’Artagnan curiously.

‘Andromeda,’ said Alexandre softly. ‘My best friend was in that house, Jean de Treville. I hear he teaches there now. But go, son, or you shall miss the train.’

D’Artagnan broke into a grin and hugged his father before making his way onto the train. He passed a compartment where a girl in Andromeda colours was talking to a boy from Sirius. The girl entranced him for a few moments before her companion realised he was staring at her, and gave d’Artagnan an offended glare. He hurried down the train until he saw a group of boys heading into another compartment. ‘Excuse me,’ he said quickly, and one of the boys stopped—Andromeda, d’Artagnan realised quickly, his father’s house—and turned to him. ‘Please may I join your compartment?’

‘’Course ya can,’ grinned the boy, and d’Artagnan hurried inside. There were two other boys in the compartment, and they were putting their suitcases on the shelf above their seats. D’Artagnan hurried to do the same.

‘You’re in Sirius,’ pointed out one of the boys, with dark, wavy hair and also in Sirius.

‘Maybe you two can stick around together,’ suggested his companion, staring down at his blue and orange tie. ‘It’s bollocks, really. Putting _us_ in different Houses!’

The boy who had invited d’Artagnan into the compartment snorted. ‘I told ya we shoulda split up on the intake day, Athos.’

Athos stared indignantly at his friend. ‘We’d literally only just met! They couldn’t have known!’

The Sirius boy rolled his eyes. ‘I’m Aramis,’ he smiled. ‘Ignore those two. They’re just annoyed because they can’t get up to their usual tricks.’

‘Charles, but you can call me d’Artagnan. Most people do.’

‘I’m Porthos,’ said the third boy, sitting down next to d’Artagnan.

‘Athos,’ and Athos outstretched his hand for d’Artagnan to take, ‘Cassiopeia.’

D’Artagnan shook his hand. ‘Know anyone else?’

‘Not really,’ said Aramis, a small smile tugging at his lips, ‘but there is _someone_ I would like to get to know.’

‘Aramis, don’t you know whose _daughter_ she is?’ said Athos sharply. ‘ _The Spanish Ambassador’s_! There is _no way—_ not with Louis around, anyway. They’ve been friends since they were children and with the way things are looking, they might become more.’

D’Artagnan cocked his head to one side. ‘How d’you know all about stuff like that?’

Athos flushed slightly. ‘Oh, my parents—’ He seemed ashamed to be talking about social status, for he said quietly, ‘My papa is a _comte_.’ He shrugged it off as if his father was nothing special.

Suddenly the door of the compartment opened, and the four boys turned their heads to face a blonde-haired boy staring at them with steely eyes. ‘Olivier de la Fère,’ he said pleasantly, leaning casually against the doorframe. ‘I heard from my father that you were in your first year, too. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Rochefort; soon to be the Comte de Rochefort, when my father dies, of course.’

At this, Porthos gave a short snigger, hiding it with his dark paws. He nosed d’Artagnan’s shoulder softly as he tried to hide his laugh.

Rochefort’s brows furrowed. ‘Think my name’s funny, do you?’ he retorted, glaring at Porthos as if the boy was something he’d just stepped in. ‘There’s no need to ask who _you_ are. Look at the state of your uniform; your blazer’s more grey than black!’

It was true. Porthos’s shoes were scuffed; the bottom of his trousers were torn and the knees had worn away slightly; his shirt was yellowing in colour. It appeared that everything Porthos was wearing had been worn by someone else at some point. In fact, his tie looked to be the only new thing he was wearing.

Rochefort screwed up his nose in disgust. ‘You must be one of _those_ kids. Honestly Olivier, you don’t want to be hanging around with the likes of him.’

Athos glared at him, and Porthos was staring at the floor ashamedly. D’Artagnan didn’t know what Rochefort meant by “those kids” but Aramis seemed to, for he patted Porthos’s knee with one hand.

‘You’ll soon find out that some families at this school are better than others, Olivier,’ said Rochefort, eyeing Porthos once more, and d’Artagnan assumed that he was the only person aside from Athos that Rochefort knew—his own father was a farmer, and if Rochefort had even the slightest inkling about it then he’d have made it known by now. ‘You don’t want to go about making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there, you know.’

Athos stood up and glanced between his friends. ‘I think I can tell the wrong sort for myself, thanks,’ he replied with a slight grin.

Rochefort huffed. ‘Suit yourself, de la Fère,’ and then he turned on his tail and stormed from the compartment.

‘What was that about?’ asked d’Artagnan once he had left. ‘And why did he call you Olivier?’

‘Olivier’s my real name,’ said Athos quietly. ‘My father’s the Comte de la Fère, so naturally Rochefort came looking for rich people to befriend.’

‘And bein’ the son of a _comte_ , Rochefort’s been taught to look down on people like me,’ said Porthos hollowly. ‘I’m from the Court o’ Miracles. The biggest orphanage in Paris,’ he added at d’Artagnan’s puzzled face.

‘Personally, I’m surprised he didn’t say anything to me,’ added Aramis quietly. ‘My father’s an _abbé_. Maybe in Rochefort they don’t care for befriending men of God.’

‘I come from Gascony,’ said d’Artagnan shakily. ‘My father’s a farmer.’

‘Ah,’ replied Athos, ‘I wondered why he didn’t recognise you. Rochefort wouldn’t go to great lengths to learn anything about a Gascon. We could use this to our advantage—’

‘Yeh,’ agreed Porthos, and Aramis nodded. ‘What can ya do, farm boy?’

D’Artagnan felt like he was being put on a spotlight. ‘I pull crops, I can ride—’

‘You can ride?’ interrupted Athos, eyes gleaming in excitement.

‘Yeah,’ shrugged d’Artagnan. ‘Most people can ride in Gascony. It’s no feat.’

‘There are stables at Louvre, you know,’ grinned Athos. ‘Apparently they’re close to the Arcturus dorms—because Arcturus is a bear, you see.’

‘An’ bears represent the outdoors?’ guessed Porthos with a laugh. ‘Andromeda’s a bloody princess crown; jus’ figures.’

‘Tower,’ said Athos. ‘Your dorm’s a tower, then. And Sirius – I’m not sure about Sirius. Cassiopeia’s a ring—’ and he laughed, ‘—maybe our dorm’s Bag End.’

Aramis snorted. ‘Who’s calling dibs on sleeping in the wardrobe?’

Porthos chuckled. ‘Some o’ the older kids at the Court say Perseus dorm’s a castle.’

‘I think the Comte de Rochefort would disagree to his son’s dorm being anything but luxury,’ agreed d’Artagnan. ‘Didn’t you see? I mean, red and black _are_ Perseus colours, aren’t they?’

Athos physically relaxed. ‘Dieu _merci_ , he isn’t in a House with any of us!’

‘Could you imagine having to share a dorm with Rochefort?’ asked Aramis, grinning.

D’Artagnan smirked. ‘He sounds like a spoilt brat. And if he takes a stab at you, Porthos, I think we’ll need to teach him a lesson.’

Porthos laughed loudly. ‘Like what?’

Athos frowned thoughtfully. ‘We could start small. The oldest, simplest pranks are the best.’

Aramis smirked gleefully. ‘The old warm water trick,’ he announced dramatically, and the four of them had to cover their mouths to conceal their laughter.

‘I hope you’re not plotting against people already,’ came a disapproving voice, and an auburn-haired girl stood in the doorway of the compartment, staring at Athos in particular. ‘I know you—Olivier de la Fère! I read about your father once—and you’re René—I’ve read about your father, too—he’s the _abbé_ d’Herblay, isn’t he? Oh! Porthos, I remember you. We bumped into each other on the intake day, didn’t we—?’ She said all this very fast. Then she paused and stared at d’Artagnan for a few moments. ‘And you are?’

‘Oh, um—d’Artagnan. I’m d’Artagnan.’ he said quietly.

‘I’m Constance. Constance Bonacieux.’ said the girl, and beamed at Porthos. ‘Are you all boarding here? Usually if you’re boarding you take the train. I’m a scholarship girl; what about you?’

‘Scholarship,’ confirmed d’Artagnan and Porthos, and Athos scratched his head awkwardly.

‘My father paid for me to come here,’ he said quietly, yet again embarrassed by the privileges that came with being the son of the Comte de la Fère.

‘Mine too,’ said Aramis, considerably less embarrassed.

‘My parents could only afford to pay for my brother Jacques. The school was very kind. They let me take the entrance exam and I got the scholarship.’ Constance stared at d’Artagnan again. ‘We should be arriving soon.’ Then she turned and left.

‘Mon Dieu!’ exclaimed d’Artagnan quietly. ‘Wasn’t she annoying!’

‘Know-it-all, too,’ muttered Aramis. ‘How did she know who I was?’

‘Didn’t you hear?’ laughed Athos. ‘She read about it in a book!’

Porthos frowned. ‘Guys, that’s enough. She’s really nice, you know.’

D’Artagnan nodded. ‘I bet she is. She’s just annoying. I mean, who talks at that speed?’

‘And she was staring at you,’ added Athos. ‘Why was she staring at you?’

‘Maybe she thinks you’re,’ and Aramis nudged d’Artagnan with a dramatic wink, ‘ _cute_.’

D’Artagnan blushed slightly. ‘Shut up!’

* * *

D’Artagnan was shook awake as the train ground to a halt. ‘We here?’ he mumbled.

‘Yeh,’ said Porthos. ‘D’ya want me to carry your sui’case while ya wake up a bi’?’

‘No, it’s fine,’ d’Artagnan said, easily standing up and reaching his suitcase from the shelf. Athos and Aramis were making their way from the compartment, and he hurriedly followed. D’Artagnan followed them from the train and Athos pointed to five teachers stood at the far end of the station courtyard. ‘Look,’ he said softly, ‘those must be our Heads of Houses. I can see Cassiopeia’s ring.’

Aramis nudged d’Artagnan and pointed to the left of the station courtyard. ‘There’s the dog for Sirius House,’ he said firmly. ‘See you two in class.’ He and d’Artagnan approached their Head of House, a short grey-haired woman.

The boy who had glared at d’Artagnan on the train was there, and he grinned at them. ‘Hey! I’m Louis.’

‘Hey,’ smiled Aramis, who thankfully had no idea what had happened between d’Artagnan and Louis on the train. (Personally, he didn’t think Louis even _recognised_ him.) ‘I’m Aramis, and this is my friend d’Artagnan.’

‘Hey. It’s nice to meet you. Are you scholarship boys?’

‘I am,’ said d’Artagnan, ‘but Aramis isn’t. What about you?’

Louis laughed loudly. ‘You’re funny—’ and he grinned at Aramis. ‘Isn’t he funny?’ Upon realising that d’Artagnan wasn’t joking, he sobered. ‘I got in free, of course. I _am_ the Headmaster’s son, after all.’

‘If Athos was in our house he’d have told us this,’ hissed Aramis to d’Artagnan.

‘I have no idea who’s supposed to be posh and rich and who isn’t,’ d’Artagnan hissed back. ‘We’re doomed.’

‘Come on, children,’ came the voice of the Head of Sirius. ‘Time to see your dorms.’

They followed her down a path, passing a sign which read “Sirius House, First Right” and then d’Artagnan stopped suddenly, for there in front of them was a row of seven small houses. Aramis almost collided with his back, and then stopped and stared too. They almost stumbled towards the house, and waited impatiently as the Head of House opened the door. She ushered everybody inside and Aramis hurried d’Artagnan so they could sit on a beanbag in the living room.

‘I warmly welcome you to the Sirius dorms,’ announced the Head of House. ‘I am Madame Berthelot, and I will be the Head of your House until you leave in the Upper Sixth. Your dorms are up the stairs —girls on the left and boys on the right. Matrone de la Rhénanie has food on the table if you are hungry.’ She stood up, either wanting to be rid of the first-years or wishing to speak to her older students. ‘With that, I bid you goodnight and adieu!’

She left quickly, and d’Artagnan stood up. ‘Do we choose our own dorms, then?’

‘I suppose so,’ said Aramis, and called Louis over. ‘Do you want to room with us?’

‘Sure,’ said Louis, shrugging. ‘Better make the most of it,’ he hissed to the two. ‘They pick your dorms for you next year.’

‘I’m glad you know so much,’ replied d’Artagnan sincerely. ‘No surprises for us next year.’

The other Sirius students had begun to file up the stairs, and Aramis quickly joined them, pulling d’Artagnan and Louis along with him.

As everybody filed into their respective dorms, Aramis spotted an empty one and pulled d’Artagnan and Louis inside. It was smaller than the others, and he realised too late that it was exactly why it was empty. ‘ _Zut_!’ he hissed.

‘No matter,’ said d’Artagnan. ‘There’s room for the three of us.’

There was a bunk bed in the corner of the room, and a single bed on the other side. It was connected to a small bathroom with a shower that belonged to them only—unlike the other dorms, it didn’t look as if they’d be sharing bathroom facilities. The walls were light and a soft cream carpet warmed their feet. D’Artagnan shut the curtains as Aramis made use of the towel on the bath rail, and shut the bathroom door with an involuntary slam.

Quietly Louis and d’Artagnan changed into their pyjamas, both too tired to say a word. ‘My papa was right,’ murmured d’Artagnan sleepily. ‘It _is_ wonderful.’ He unpacked his case and hung up clothes for the next day.

‘What’ve we got first?’ asked Louis as he got into the single bed. D’Artagnan was secretly glad that he was going to have the bunk bed with Aramis—he felt much more comfortable and open around him, although he knew it would be a matter of time before he would feel the same way around Louis too.

D’Artagnan took his timetable from his schoolbag and studied it. ‘Mythology,’ he said quietly.

Aramis entered the room from the bathroom, a towel around his waist. ‘Do you want the top bunk?’ he asked, retrieving his pyjamas from his suitcase.

‘I— thanks,’ grinned d’Artagnan, watching Aramis hang up his schoolbag and uniform. He climbed up the ladders and made himself comfortable.

His eyes were closed without even saying goodnight.


	3. Théories du Complot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘[M]agic is a ton of different things. It’s not just sunshine and rainbows, Aramis. It can be curses and trickery and even murder. For every wonderful thing you can do in life, there is a despicable thing you can do to go with it. Take chemistry for example. You could create this wonderful medicine that cures a terrible illness, but that wonderful medicine can also be a poison to somebody with a different illness.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for the incredibly late update! Suffice to say, I'm back into this fic and it will hopefully be updated more often!

D’Artagnan was awoken by a loud rap on the door. ‘Up, up, up!’ It was Madame Berthelot. He groaned and rolled over. Slowly he climbed down from the bunk. Louis was slowly blinking awake, pulling the covers away. ‘Mythology?’ he asked groggily.

D’Artagnan nodded. ‘Mythology,’ he confirmed. He turned his head. Aramis was still too sleepy to say anything, and he yawned in greeting.

‘D’Artagnan, do you want to shower first?’ asked Louis. He reached over to the bedside table and his hand closed around something white that d’Artagnan hadn’t noticed the night before. It was an alarm clock. ‘It’s not late. School starts at ten to nine and it’s only seven.’

‘How far are we?’ asked d’Artagnan. Aramis rose from the bed.

‘Not far,’ said Aramis. He smiled knowingly. ‘I forgot you fell asleep. You haven’t seen the school. We went past it on the train. I can’t tell you, it’ll ruin the surprise. You’ll see soon.’

D’Artagnan shrugged. ‘I’ll wash first, then.’

He went into the bathroom, leaving Louis and Aramis alone. ‘Your father’s the headmaster,’ stated Aramis.

‘Yes,’ said Louis softly, ‘he is.’

‘Then you must know _something_ ,’ pressed Aramis. ‘You know something about Louvre that nobody else does.’

‘No. I know just as much as you do regarding the history of this school. It’s a mystery to everybody, Aramis. Why should I know more?’

‘Because your father’s the _headmaster_! All the other headmasters after Harthouse were just as mysterious as _he_ was! They all knew something we don’t!’

Louis gave a soft laugh. ‘I’ll admit that there’s a lot of mystery inside these walls, Aramis. But I can’t tell you anything more. I don’t _know_ anything more. If my father does, he hasn’t said anything.’

‘Fine,’ said Aramis, defeated. He turned to the three blazers hung up and pointed to the crest on the left pocket: a navy and yellow striped shield with the head of a wolf in the middle. ‘Do you know what the crests mean? Everybody’s been trying to work it out for years. Even those whose families have been coming to the Louvre since it was founded can’t find anything. Nobody’s _left_ anything.’

‘You think I’m _related_ to Harthouse?’ asked Louis in a bewildered tone. ‘Look, I don’t know what the crests mean. Everything in this school is a secret for a reason. Harthouse didn’t want anyone to find things out, and he hid them. Maybe we should just leave them alone.’

The bathroom door opened, and Aramis frowned. He sat down on his bed, signalling that the conversation was over. ‘Bathroom’s free,’ said d’Artagnan. He entered the room unaware of the atmosphere and began changing into his uniform. Louis hurried into the bathroom, leaving d’Artagnan and Aramis alone. Slowly, Aramis began to button up his shirt, and he said softly, ‘How much do you know about Louvre?’

‘Not much,’ said d’Artagnan. ‘My father never wanted to ruin the surprise for me. Why?’

‘No reason,’ replied Aramis softly. He picked up his tie and began to tie it around his neck. ‘I was just wondering.’ When his trousers and socks were on, he put his feet in his black shoes and reached for his blazer. He peered into all three of them before he found the one with his name in.

‘Is that a bad thing? Not knowing?’ asked d’Artagnan after a while, he too putting on his blazer.

‘No,’ said Aramis softly. ‘Hardly anyone knows much about this school. It’s a mystery.’

Louis came out of the bathroom, pretending that he hadn’t caught the last of Aramis and d’Artagnan’s conversation. He already had his uniform on, and he put on his blazer without much of a fuss. ‘Ready to go down now?’ he asked.

‘Ready?’ echoed Aramis. ‘I’m starving!’

Louis laughed, glancing slightly at Aramis, and d’Artagnan couldn’t help but think that he’d missed something.

The trio hurried down to the dining room, where many of the other first-years were already eating breakfast. Matrone de la Rhénanie had laid out food, and with a bit of pushing and shoving, d’Artagnan had managed to grab three slices of toast, some butter, a croissant and a glass of orange juice. He sat opposite Aramis and next to Louis, who tucked into their breakfasts. The toast was dry as d’Artagnan swallowed, a mixture of excitement and nerves in his stomach. ‘Who teaches mythology?’ he asked quietly.

‘Not sure,’ said Louis, trying to ignore Aramis’s sceptical look. ‘I’m excited for mythology. It’s supposed to be really interesting, and we don’t just learn about the big myths like the Greeks and Romans. We’re supposed to be learning about the Chinese myths this year.’

‘Sounds fun,’ said Aramis. ‘Who teaches Religious Education?’ He had taken his timetable from his schoolbag and was now examining it.

‘Monsieur Richelieu,’ said Louis. D’Artagnan noticed the pair were hardly looking at each other. ‘He was a cardinal, once, but he quit to teach here. He also runs some sort of religion club. You should go if you’re interested.’

‘Hmm,’ said Aramis, finally looking up to face Louis. He stabbed at a sausage with his fork. ‘Sounds interesting.’

D’Artagnan cleared his plate and waited for Louis and Aramis. ‘What’s got into you two?’

‘Nothing,’ said Aramis quickly. ‘I just want to get to class. I’ve been waiting for this for eleven years.’

‘Fine,’ said Louis. ‘I’m not hungry anyway.’

The trio rose from their seats, and Louis led them from the dorms. The sky was bright and d’Artagnan looked in confusion down the path. It didn’t seem to lead anywhere. Although he remembered this path from when he came to the dorms, he didn’t see the school anywhere. ‘How’re we getting to school? Where _is_ it?’

Louis smiled. ‘The bus’ll be coming soon.’

‘Bus?’ echoed d’Artagnan.

Aramis nodded, putting one hand on his shoulder. ‘The buses come to take us to school. They’re inter-house buses, so anyone can get one. Prefects and sixth-years can get tickets to get priority seats at the front of the bus, so we’ll probably be at the back.’

‘And it’s free,’ chimed in Louis, ‘so you don’t have to spend any money. That’s how you’ll probably meet most of your friends because the buses are so busy.’

It didn’t take long for one of the buses to arrive. It was quite busy, but there were still places to stand. Quickly the trio boarded. ‘D’Artagnan! Aramis!’ cried a familiar voice. D’Artagnan turned his head to see Athos at the back of the bus, sitting beside a dark-haired girl. She was also from Cassiopeia, so he figured they’d got the bus together.

D’Artagnan tugged on Aramis’s blazer. ‘Come on,’ he urged, pulling him to the back of the bus, their housemate forgotten. The four gave short, excited greetings, each as eager as the others to get to school for their first lesson.

‘This is Milady,’ said Athos.

D’Artagnan nodded. ‘It’s nice to meet you,’ he said. ‘I’m d’Artagnan, and this is my friend Aramis.’

Aramis’s cheeks reddened proudly at the thought of being considered d’Artagnan’s friend.

‘Is that Louis de Bourbon over there?’ asked Athos, trying to change the subject. ‘How did you end up talking to him?’

‘He’s our dorm mate,’ said Aramis sourly.

‘What’s _wrong_ with you?’ asked d’Artagnan incredulously. ‘You didn’t seem to mind him until I went to shower, and all of a sudden you can’t stand him.’

Aramis sighed and shook his head. Athos raised one eyebrow. ‘We were talking about the crests,’ said Aramis quietly.

‘Discussing conspiracy theories?’ asked Milady in an interested tone. ‘Already?’

D’Artagnan grabbed the rail as the bus began to move forward, and Aramis reached for d’Artagnan’s shoulder. ‘The— _crests_?’ asked d’Artagnan, struggling to stay upright. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Look at the blazers.’ It was Milady who answered. ‘Sirius’s symbol is a dog, but on the crest, it has a wolf. Cassiopeia’s symbol is a ring, but on the crest, there is a crab. It doesn’t make sense.’

‘And I was asking Louis about it,’ said Aramis. ‘Then he said he didn’t know anything about Louvre, or Harthouse—absolute bollocks if you ask me.’

Athos laughed. ‘He probably doesn’t know anything. If he does, he’s heard it from his father. Louis de Bourbon’ll believe anything you tell him. If you told him all Harthouse’s secrets were hidden somewhere in the school and the only way to get them was to jump off the tallest Andromeda tower, he’d do it. He’s the most gullible person I’ve ever met.’

‘That won’t do him any good,’ commented d’Artagnan under his breath.

‘Still,’ said Milady quickly, ‘what do _you_ think of the crests?’

‘What about Harthouse’s four descendants?’ asked Athos. ‘The crests appeared when they did, so they must’ve created them. But all the headmasters of Louvre have disappeared as mysteriously as Harthouse did.’

D’Artagnan frowned in confusion. ‘What—they all just _disappeared_?’

‘Well—no,’ replied Athos. ‘The history books tell us lots about them: their influence on the school, their time as headmaster, and all that sort of stuff. What they don’t tell you is what happened to them after they left and how they died. Things like that have been completely left out.’

‘What, like they’ve censored the books?’

‘No,’ said Aramis, who had been quiet for some time. ‘It hasn’t even been written there in the first place. Like absolutely nobody knows what happened. You’d think there’d be _something_ , but there just _isn’t_. There’s absolutely nothing.’

‘It’s funny business, this school,’ said Milady ominously. Her face was somewhat pale; it looked as if she was frightened by the disappearances, or perhaps she was just travel-sick. D’Artagnan wasn’t sure. ‘Strange things keep going on, don’t they? I mean, nobody knows what happened to the previous headmasters. It’s almost as if they just _disappeared_.’

‘But people can’t _disappear_!’ protested Aramis. ‘That’s –’

‘Ridiculous, I know,’ she said. ‘That’s what I mean. It’s eerie. And you say that Louis doesn’t know anything about the school. Well, I’ll bet you he does. He _has_ to.’

‘That’s what I said,’ agreed Aramis. ‘I bet he’s been sworn to secrecy. I mean, if all these headmasters have disappeared after they resigned, then Headmaster Bourbon’s got to be next, hasn’t he?’

D’Artagnan looked nervously at Aramis. ‘But—that won’t happen, will it? I mean, people will know what’s going on because it’ll be happening right in front of us.’

‘Well, not exactly,’ said Athos. ‘Bourbon will get a lot of publicity when he resigns, which will die down after about a year or so—they’ll publish stories about the area he moves to, rather than focus on his life, and once they stop, who knows what’ll happen? Because nobody really bothers with him anymore, that’d be the perfect time for him to disappear like the other headmasters. And then the news’ll break out about his disappearance, and it’ll happen over and over again –’

‘– until someone breaks the spell, or curse, or whatever it is,’ finished Milady.

‘You think it’s a curse?’ asked Aramis. ‘But magic isn’t real. We’re too old to believe in magic.’

Milady laughed. ‘You don’t believe there isn’t some sort of witchcraft going on? There’s so much mystery surrounding Louvre, anything could be going on behind closed doors. You can say what you want, but I’m not ruling out the possibility.’

‘Besides,’ said Athos in a low voice, ‘magic is a ton of different things. It’s not just sunshine and rainbows Aramis. It can be curses and trickery and even _murder_. For every wonderful thing you can do in life, there is a despicable thing you can do to go with it. Take chemistry for example. You could create this wonderful medicine that cures a terrible illness, but that wonderful medicine can also be a poison to somebody with a different illness.’

D’Artagnan shuddered at the ominous tone of Athos’s voice, but his thoughts were interrupted by a loud yelp coming from his mouth as Aramis stood on his toe. The bus had screeched to a halt. Slowly the four made their way out of the bus, taking care to avoid jabs and pushes from the older, taller students.

‘So, who’s Harthouse again?’ asked d’Artagnan for clarification.

‘He’s the founder of the school,’ said Athos, adjusting his satchel. ‘Most of us know about him already, but we get to learn about him in History anyway. All you need to know is that he’s British, and his name’s Oliver Harthouse.’

‘I heard that wasn’t really his name,’ said Milady eagerly.

Their conversation was lost as they approached the school building. It was impressive, and it was obviously once a palace or stately home. There was a stand at the entrance, with maps to take. It was lucky, because without them d’Artagnan was sure he’d have gotten lost. ‘Let’s see,’ said Aramis, as he unfolded the map. ‘We’re at the front entrance now—the English and Maths corridors are to the left, and—ah, look! I’ve found Mythology!’ He pointed to a small section on the other side of the building, close to the History and Cultural Studies classrooms.

Athos peered over his shoulder. ‘Better get going, then,’ he said. ‘We don’t want to be late for our first class. We’re both in Languages, so we’ll walk with you a little.’

‘We’ve both picked Italian for the A option,’ said Milady. ‘What about you?’

Aramis folded the map back up and put it in his blazer pocket. ‘Latin. Come on, d’Artagnan. We’ve just passed the English corridor, and—oh, look! Second-year subjects must be down there! I always wondered what you learnt in Advanced War Studies. Must be awfully interesting.’

Aramis checked his map several times as d’Artagnan hurried to keep up.

‘See you at break,’ said Athos as he and Milady disappeared down the Languages corridor.

They walked in almost silence, apart from the squeaking of shiny new shoes on shiny polished floor until they came to a group of similar-looking classrooms. ‘Mythology!’ exclaimed Aramis after what seemed like forever. D’Artagnan was personally very grateful that their class wasn’t on the upper floors; it looked like the older years had their classes there. He hoped there was a lift by the time he was in third-year.

Aramis opened the classroom door. Mythology was taught by a tall, fair-haired woman with dark eyes, and she watched Aramis and d’Artagnan’s every move as they hurried to find a seat.

‘Welcome to Mythology! I suppose the majority of you will not know what this subject will entail. Well, I shall tell you! Throughout the first five years of your school years at the Louvre, Mythology is compulsory! And quite right, I say! This year alone, I can teach you tales of ferocious beasts, daring heroes and wonderful creatures beyond your imagination!’

Aramis leaned into d’Artagnan and whispered, ‘She’s a mad one, she is.’

‘Still,’ he countered, ‘I like the idea of daring heroes.’

‘Sounds like some sort of story,’ mumbled Aramis.

‘That’s the point,’ hissed d’Artagnan. ‘Mythology isn’t real.’ And he laughed.

Louvre was turning out to be just the way he imagined it to be.


	4. Amitié et Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wasn’t sure if [Milady] was a scholarship or a paid student. He assumed that her family had also been Louvre students; she was very knowledgeable in some areas.  
> Rumours about Oliver Harthouse was one of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've made a little score to go with this fic! It's not set in stone, though, so if I make any changes I'll put the link up again with the next chapter!  
> listen [here](http://8tracks.com/lykxxn/i-m-coming-home)

‘Alright, I admit it,’ laughed Aramis as he and d’Artagnan made their way into the lunch room, ‘Mythology was interesting. And Maths didn’t actually suck. But I say M. Ardouin’s going to get really strict. And _then_ Maths will suck.’

‘Hey, look –’ D’Artagnan pointed to one of the tables in the corner of the room. ‘I can see Porthos, and—is that Milady and Athos with him?’

‘Must be,’ said Aramis excitedly. ‘Athos! Porthos!’ He hurried in the direction of the table with d’Artagnan in tow.

Quickly they took a seat, d’Artagnan being in the middle of Porthos and Aramis, who was next to Athos. Milady sat on the opposite side of the table, next to—

‘Oh _no_ ,’ groaned Aramis. ‘She is _not_ sitting here.’

Constance blushed a little and stared at _Nicholas Flamel’s Immortality_ , one of the four books she had brought along with her, in embarrassment.

‘I said she could sit here,’ said Milady. She raised an eyebrow as if daring one of the four boys to challenge her. ‘Do any of you have a problem? Or would you like me and my friend to leave?’

Constance smiled a little at being referred to as somebody’s friend.

‘No, no,’ said Athos quickly, ‘don’t go. Ignore Aramis. He’s a prat. You can sit with us whenever you like.’

D’Artagnan frowned. He didn’t really want Constance to stay—she’d been so, well, _annoying_ on the train—but the look on her face told him she didn’t really have many friends and he couldn’t help but imagine how terrible it’d be to not have any friends at school. ‘Uh,’ he said awkwardly, ‘what books have you got?’

Aramis sniggered at the question, but Porthos silenced him with a glare.

‘Oh—’ Constance looked up in surprise. ‘Well, this is _Nicholas Flamel’s Immortality_ , and it’s about the Philosopher’s Stone and the Elixir of Life, and I also have _The Mysteries of Oliver Harthouse_ , _Stars and Fortune-Telling_ , and _The Magick of Wicca_. I thought it’d be good to do a little research on things we’re studying this year, to get ahead, you know.’

Aramis was clearly not listening, as he was glancing at the table across from them.

‘Stop staring at Anne,’ hissed Athos. He frowned in disapproval.

‘I’m not,’ said Aramis. He turned suspiciously to Constance. ‘Did _he_ send you over here?’

‘What?’ It was not Constance who answered, but Milady. ‘Nobody sent her here. I _invited_ her here.’

Aramis jerked a thumb to the table. ‘Then why’s _he_ so close?’

‘Who—?’ but Constance stopped, seeing who Aramis was pointing to. Jacques Bonacieux was sat next to Rochefort along with a few of his other, probably incredibly rich, friends. It was clear that Jacques had not been forced to sit with them. In fact, they were conversing in an extremely friendly manner. Constance frowned and stared at him. Then she looked back at the four boys. ‘Well—maybe he’s just made _friends_ ,’ she said quietly. ‘I—I don’t know.’

‘He’s friends with the guy who hates us, and you’re saying—’

Athos shushed Aramis. ‘It doesn’t matter. Look, does anybody have anything on the teachers? Who’s strict? Who do we have to watch out for?’

‘Mme. Brochard teaches English, she’s really nice—unless you’re on her bad side,’ said Constance. She picked up _The Mysteries of Oliver Harthouse_ , flicked through it, and continued, ‘M. Pueyrredón is alright, I guess, but he’ll give you a seating plan.’

Aramis groaned quietly.

‘He’s got something against Perseus, I’m telling you,’ added Constance.

‘Well—d’Artagnan, are you taking Italian?’ asked Athos. ‘M. Brunet is a great teacher. It’s just a shame he isn’t actually Italian.’

D’Artagnan looked at him. He hadn’t actually considered that his language teachers might actually teach their mother tongue.

‘He’ll probably get replaced next year,’ said Milady casually. ‘Probably not for the first-years, but if you’re taking Italian as an option, well, you’ve got to have someone who knows everything there is to know, haven’t you?’

 ‘Anyway,’ said Porthos eagerly, ‘have you had Mythology yet? I heard it’s meant to be one o’ the best subjects!’

Constance put down _The Mysteries of Oliver Harthouse_ , glancing over at him in interest.

‘Oh, yeah,’ said Aramis. ‘Mme. Bosquet is a little—’ he paused, trying to search for the right word, ‘— _funny_ , but it’s not a boring lesson at all. I’m rather looking forward to learning all this mythical stuff.’

‘Isn’t it compulsory until sixth-year?’ asked Constance. ‘I wonder why.’

Aramis nodded towards _The Mysteries of Oliver Harthouse_. ‘Another mystery of his, then, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘I mean, why do we need to learn mythology in the first place? And if we’re learning it, why isn’t it just under History?’

‘I agree,’ murmured Porthos. ‘It’s a bit—magical. All Harry Potter-esque. What’s with Alchemy and Astronomy as well? That’s not somethin’ everyone learns.’

‘Maybe that’s what Harthouse was fascinated with,’ suggested Athos, ‘and he wanted people to learn it too.’

‘True,’ said Aramis, ‘but it’s a bit rash to go ahead and put it on the curriculum. Why not a club or something? Why _lessons_?’

Milady seemed to contemplate this. D’Artagnan watched her intently, trying to work out if he knew anything about her. He wasn’t sure if she was a scholarship or a paid student. He assumed that her family had also been Louvre students; she was very knowledgeable in some areas.

Rumours about Oliver Harthouse was one of them.

_“I heard that wasn’t his real name.”_

_“Discussing conspiracy theories? Already?”_

_“It’s funny business, this school.”_

_“You don’t believe there isn’t some sort of witchcraft going on?”_

‘Milady, how much do you know about Oliver Harthouse?’ he asked, his voice filling the silence they had created amongst the group.

‘Not a lot,’ she said. ‘It’s all theories, really, and rumours. I mean, people _say_ things about him but nobody really knows if they’re true. The only person who will know is the Headmaster. Bourbon will have access to all the information about Harthouse. Anything that he’s ever written down that is in this school belongs to him.’

‘What, so you’re saying that everything we want to know about Harthouse is in Bourbon’s office?’ asked Aramis.

‘Probably.’ Milady picked up _The Mysteries of Oliver Harthouse_ and studied the blurb carefully. ‘I don’t think this book will be of any use. It’ll all just be false tales and theories—silly theories. We don’t want theories. We want the truth.’ She passed it back.

‘Well, we could look at some of the theories,’ said Constance nervously, ‘and see if we can find out which ones are true. We can rule out the most obviously fake ones first, seeing as you and Athos know a lot already.’

‘That sounds great,’ said Aramis, ‘but how are we supposed to disprove theories when we have no way of getting information?’

Constance frowned, but a smirk had formed on Milady’s face. ‘We sneak into the Headmaster’s office one evening,’ she suggested. ‘Wait for a few weeks, until we know the school better. Then, when all the teachers are having dinner in here, we sneak in, find Harthouse’s stash of hidden secrets, and go.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Porthos. ‘I mean, if we’re caught—’

‘We won’t be,’ said Milady confidently. ‘We’ll plan. Trust me. Besides, we’ll return the documents before Bourbon knows they’re gone.’

‘How do you even know there _are_ documents?’ asked Aramis. There was a slight sneer in his tone when he spoke.

Milady couldn’t answer. She really didn’t know.

‘Maybe we should do a little more research then,’ suggested Constance.

‘There’s nothing to research,’ said Athos. ‘Harthouse left nothing. If he did, it’s hidden somewhere—’

‘—in Louvre,’ finished Milady quickly. ‘We could be looking for anything. A—a diary, a book, letters—the possibilities are endless.’

‘Trial an’ error works,’ said Porthos. ‘We’d ‘ave to be really careful, though. If we get caught, how’re we gonna explain it? All six of us, skippin’ lunch or dinner?’

‘We’d have to swap roles or something,’ said d’Artagnan, ‘and have someone to keep watch. Not the same person every time, though. That’d give it away.’

‘We—we could come out after curfew,’ suggested Constance quietly. ‘I—I mean, like maybe Athos and Milady, and Aramis and d’Artagnan. Then it’s not one of us leaving our dorms alone.’

‘But how are we supposed to get into the school?’ asked Aramis. ‘None of the buses run at night and I’m sure the school will be locked.’

‘We could get in through the teachers’ dorms,’ said Milady. ‘That’s open ‘till midnight, and we can get to the rest of the school through there.’

‘But aren’t the teachers going to be there?’ asked Aramis.

Milady sighed. ‘Never mind. We need a new idea.’

Constance opened _The Mysteries of Oliver Harthouse_ and flicked through the first few pages until she got to the contents page. ‘What we really need,’ she said, as she studied the names of each chapter, ‘is a map.’

Porthos grinned. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘A map’d do us fine. Then we could get around no problem.’

‘Shame we don’t have one,’ said Aramis. ‘Isn’t there one in the back of that book?’

‘No,’ said Constance. ‘I read it on the train ride here. There’s only theories and some information on the more unfamiliar subjects like Astronomy, Alchemy and Mythology.’

‘This school really is a mystery,’ said d’Artagnan. ‘How is there no information on Harthouse? How can he just _disappear_?’

‘I don’t know, but—’ Athos’s words were lost as a bell rung, signalling the end of break and the start of third period. ‘Drat,’ he hissed in frustration. ‘Meet here at lunch, okay? Milady—Milady, we’ve got Computer Science.’ He grabbed her and the two hurried off.

Aramis pulled his timetable from his blazer pocket and studied it quickly. ‘Biology,’ he told d’Artagnan. ‘We’ll see you guys,’ and nodded towards Porthos and Constance.

The two hurried through the crowd of students. ‘Where’s the Science corridor?’ asked d’Artagnan. ‘I forgot.’

‘Me too,’ said Aramis, and he shoved his hand into the other pocket and pulled out the map he’d taken this morning. ‘We’re so stupid. We’ve got a map right here.’ He glanced at it. ‘Not far. Follow me.’

As d’Artagnan hurried to catch up, he said, ‘If we’ve got a map, we can work out a plan. But we need the others first.’

‘Yeah, we do,’ replied Aramis. He was almost shouting. ‘Round this corner.’

The Biology classroom wasn’t far down the corridor, and it was taught by a short, plump man by the name of M. Landry. He was soft with students and didn’t mind talking so long as you were doing work.

Aramis took a seat at the back next to d’Artagnan. He copied down the diagram from the board and said quietly, ‘I think staying out past curfew is out unless we find some way around it. Skipping lunch and dinner too often means people will get suspicious—but we could come in early. Get up before everyone else, get the first bus in—then we can walk around school and teachers won’t pay any mind to it.’

‘You have a point,’ murmured d’Artagnan. ‘If they ask questions we could always say we’re going to do some research or homework together.’

Aramis copied down a new question from the board and answered it. He nudged d’Artagnan and nodded in the direction of the board. ‘We’ve got a new question. I think that could work,’ he added. ‘But Milady seems to know a lot. Do you think she’s hiding something?’

‘I thought that too,’ said d’Artagnan, looking away for a moment to read the question again. ‘But maybe she picked it up somewhere. She’s certainly not a scholarship girl.’

‘No,’ agreed Aramis, ‘she isn’t. I don’t know what to make of Constance, either.’

‘At least she’s tolerable now. Her brother might pose a problem, though. He’s friends with Rochefort, after all.’

‘Funny, that, don’t you think?’ Aramis tapped lightly on the table with the end of his pen. ‘Someone like Bonacieux, friends with a future Comte? Something doesn’t quite add up.’

‘Well, it _could_ be as Constance says. Maybe they’ve just— _clicked_.’

‘I don’t think she wants to go against him,’ said Aramis. ‘Who’d blame her? He’s her brother, after all.’

‘Still,’ said d’Artagnan, lifting his head up to see if there was another question, ‘she didn’t seem shocked that he was making friends with Rochefort. A little strange if you ask me.’

‘There’s more to them than meets the eye,’ commented Aramis.

‘Are you kidding? There’s more to _everyone_ than meets the eye. We’ve all got our secrets, Aramis. We’ve all got things we want to hide from people, whether it’s for our benefit or theirs. We’re all afraid of being judged, of being ridiculed, of being outcast, so we keep things from others so we can fit in.’

Aramis shrugged. ‘I prefer to be open about things.’

‘Maybe so, but I know Athos wasn’t comfortable with revealing his social status on the train,’ said d’Artagnan. He moved a strand of dark hair from his face. His hair wasn’t long, not yet, but he had a fringe that came almost over his eyes. It was frustrating but his father simply hadn’t had time to cut his hair over the holidays. ‘I guess he thought we’d leave him if we knew about his family.’

Aramis shook his head. ‘Silly git,’ he said in a fond tone. ‘What’s the saying? “Friends forever stay together”? Something like that.’

‘That’s pathetic,’ said d’Artagnan. ‘We need something better than that.’

‘Fine.’ Aramis put down his pen. ‘One for all?’

D’Artagnan smirked. He liked this one. ‘And all for one,’ he declared quietly.


	5. Secret de la Constance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘You’re coming with me,’ [Bonacieux] said to Constance.  
> ‘Why?’ she asked timidly.  
> Bonacieux reached out and grabbed a chunk of her hair. ‘Because if you don’t, I’ll tell everyone, and then you won’t have any friends.’

Lunch came quickly, despite Aramis and d’Artagnan being separated in English Literature. They hurried into the lunch hall to get food. Today’s special was penne pasta, but there were also beef kebabs and some sort of yellow curry. There were cold sandwiches and salad available, as well as both hot and cold desserts. Porthos was in front of Aramis and d’Artagnan in the queue, and he picked the curry. Aramis went for a sandwich, and d’Artagnan chose the kebabs, which came with _frites_ and some peppers.

Joining Athos, Milady and Constance, the trio sat down to eat. ‘I have a map,’ said Aramis, trying not to talk through his mouthful of turkey sandwich. ‘We picked one up at the entrance, remember?’

Milady’s eyes flashed in recognition. ‘Oh, yes!’ she cried. ‘How silly of us not to remember!’

Aramis passed the map over to her, and she scanned it eagerly. ‘Okay, so the teachers’ dorms are over here.’ She seemed to find it with ease. ‘We’ve got no chance at coming back after curfew. It’s going to be packed. There’s no way we’ll get in without being spotted.’

‘Aramis and I were talking about going in early,’ said d’Artagnan. ‘If anyone questions us we can say we’re going to do homework or study.’

Athos gave an interested look. ‘You know, that could work,’ he said. ‘We could do this earlier, as well. We can say we’re going round so we can know the school better.’

Porthos ripped off a piece of naan bread and bit into it. ‘I can send a letter to some o’ the older ‘uns at the Court; they might know somethin’.’

‘I guess our first step is to get as much information as possible,’ said Constance. Since the first talk during break, she seemed to have gained more confidence, as if she had realised that her ideas had worth to them. ‘Then we can work out which teachers are more likely to give us detentions, which will believe our stories, and where is off-bounds.’

Milady nodded in approval. ‘Sounds good,’ she commented. She pulled out a piece of lined paper from the inside pocket of her blazer. ‘Nicked this from Mme. Bosquet on the way out of Mythology. Let’s write down everything we know.’

‘Well—let’s start basic,’ said Aramis. ‘We know that the teachers’ dorms will be full of teachers, but we also know how to get in. That’s helpful in its own right.’

‘Helpful?’ scoffed Athos. ‘How?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Aramis, ‘but it could be. You never know.’

‘Fine.’ Athos gave Milady’s handwriting another look and, because Athos had done so, d’Artagnan did too. It was a fine cursive, and gave off an air of elegance. She was _definitely_ not a scholarship girl. ‘We have four times to go wandering—before school, during break, during lunch, and during dinner. We could even go around in between dinner and curfew. That’s usually when people serve detentions, though.’

Milady wrote this down too. ‘If you’re caught wandering or lingering in the hallway in between dinner and curfew without a proper reason you get given detention too,’ she said, ‘so we’ll have to be really careful. That time’s supposed to be for giving in homework, attending detentions, and seeing teachers.’

D’Artagnan and Aramis exchanged glances. How did she know this?

‘Alright,’ said Porthos. ‘What about the roles an’ stuff? Should we arrange them now?’

‘No, I don’t think so,’ said Aramis. ‘We haven’t got a plan yet, so it’d be useless.’

‘We’ve got hardly anything,’ said d’Artagnan in a defeated tone. ‘We don’t even know what we’re looking for.’

‘So much for that,’ said Athos, finally seeming to give up. ‘Do we have any more information on the teachers?’

Milady frowned at the change in subject, but Constance was eager to speak. ‘Rochefort’s been moved into the lower set!’ she gushed, grinning. ‘The teachers must’ve made a mistake. The horrified look on his face—’

‘What, really?’ asked Porthos. All four of the boys were laughing quietly to themselves, and although Milady had a small smile on her face, she was still seemingly annoyed at the brisk change of subject; still wanting to talk about Harthouse.

‘Yeah,’ said Constance. ‘He must’ve scored close to fifty percent on his exam, though, otherwise the teachers wouldn’t have made the mistake.’

‘That exam’s a killer,’ said d’Artagnan. ‘But I see why they fail those who get under fifty percent.’

‘I don’t think it’s fair,’ murmured Constance. ‘I mean, if you’re a paid student and you get less than fifty percent you’re only in the lower set. But then, if you’re a scholarship and you fail, you don’t get to come!’

‘There are only a certain amount of places in the Louvre, you know,’ said Milady haughtily. ‘That’s why the more intelligent and rich students come first. If you score under ten percent in the entrance exam there’s barely a chance you’ll get in, no matter _how_ much you’ve paid. We can’t open it up to _everyone_ , you know.’

Constance flushed slightly in dismay. ‘I—I didn’t mean—’

D’Artagnan frowned to himself. Had that really been necessary? Constance hadn’t known. How did Milady expect her to know all this stuff about Louvre? Just because _she_ knew almost everything—

‘Hello, _dear_ sister.’ D’Artagnan looked up, as did everyone else. Jacques Bonacieux was stood intimidatingly over Constance, a foul smirk on his face. ‘Are these your _friends_?’

‘Yes, we are,’ said Milady coldly. Bonacieux’s eyes flashed angrily.

‘I wasn’t asking you,’ he hissed. ‘You’re coming with me,’ he said to Constance.

‘Why?’ she asked timidly.

Bonacieux reached out and grabbed a chunk of her hair. ‘Because if you don’t, I’ll tell everyone, and then you won’t have _any_ friends.’ He tugged it, and immediately d’Artagnan cried out.

‘Let her go!’

Bonacieux let the hair fall. ‘Come with me,’ he spat, ‘now.’

Constance rose from her seat and picked up her schoolbag. ‘I’ll see you guys,’ she mumbled. ‘Maybe we could meet up in the library after school.’

Then she turned and hurried away. Bonacieux followed, glaring at the five as he left.

‘What a prat,’ hissed Milady. ‘He can’t tell her what to do like that.’

‘I know,’ agreed Aramis. ‘D’Artagnan and I were talking about them in Biology, weren’t we d’Artagnan—we were saying that it was funny that Bonacieux and Rochefort were friends.’

‘And the fact that Constance wasn’t at all surprised by it,’ added d’Artagnan.

Porthos nodded in agreement. ‘It was almost as if she was— _expecting_ it.’

Milady frowned. ‘By the sounds of it, Bonacieux is like this all the time with her. She didn’t protest or anything.’

‘What was it all about, anyway?’ asked Athos. ‘“I’ll tell everyone, and then you won’t have any friends”? What did he even mean?’

‘It’s obvious Constance has a secret,’ said Aramis. ‘Bonacieux, being her brother, knows all about it and now he’s going to use it against her.’

‘What an _imbécile_ ,’ repeated Milady. She frowned. ‘We have to do something about him.’

‘Like what?’ asked Porthos.

‘Easy,’ said Milady, her eyes flashing. She had a plan up her sleeve; it was easy to see. ‘Constance is closest to him; she can walk past him without much bother. We can put something in his bag.’

‘Like what?’ asked Athos curiously, raising his eyebrows.

‘I was thinking perhaps we can go off to the _infirmère_ ’s office and see what she has in there,’ said Milady.

‘Like—like a—a—’ There wasn’t even an idea in d’Artagnan’s head. Clearly Milady had something in mind.

‘Well, the _infirmère_ has a lot of wet underwear,’ she said quietly, ‘and I was thinking we could put a pair in his bag, so when he opens it in front of all his friends—’

‘—the underwear’s right there on top!’ cried Porthos, grinning in delight. ‘It’s wonderful! Imagine the look on his face!’

‘He’d be so embarrassed,’ said Aramis. ‘But we have to make sure it doesn’t look like _we’ve_ done it. I mean, _he’ll_ know we’re the ones who did it, but to Rochefort we’ve got to look innocent.’

‘Let’s do it,’ said d’Artagnan quickly, before anyone could change their minds or worry that they couldn’t pull it off. The others nodded in agreement.

‘Bet you didn’t think you’d be doing _this_ ,’ said Milady with a grin. ‘Plotting on the very first day. Still, you can’t stay good at Louvre for very long. You’re bound to get in trouble eventually. We might as well start early.’

Athos reached over to d’Artagnan’s plate and took a pepper. He chewed it delicately. ‘Do you want to go and wander around the school? We might find Constance and hopefully wrench her away from that brother of hers.’

Aramis nodded in agreement. ‘That sounds like a good plan,’ he said.

* * *

It was after Literature that Milady finally found Constance, although quite by accident. The auburn-haired girl was scrubbing furiously at her cheeks as she stood in front of the sinks, and Milady tentatively took a step forward. ‘Did he hurt you?’ she asked bluntly.

Constance whirled around in surprise. ‘M—Milady?’ she asked shakily. ‘How long’ve you been here?’

‘I’ve only just walked in,’ said Milady softly, and then she repeated her previous question. ‘Did he hurt you?’

‘No, he just—’ she broke off dejectedly, and looked back at the mirror.

Milady frowned. ‘He just what?’

Constance could see Milady’s disapproving stare through the reflection in the mirror. Guilt settled in the pit of her stomach. As much as she wanted to tell Milady—her first friend at Louvre—she was also very afraid to trust her.

‘I—I don’t think I want to—’

‘That’s okay,’ said Milady confidently. ‘You don’t have to if you don’t want to. I won’t force you. Here,’ she said gently, ‘you’ll make it worse if you do that.’ She gestured towards Constance’s reddened face. ‘Don’t rub it. Pat it instead. It won’t feel as rough, either.’

Constance smiled gratefully.

‘Come on, then,’ said Milady softly, ‘before we get detention.’

* * *

Aramis was quiet on the bus ride back to the Sirius dorms. He and d’Artagnan had managed to grab some seats next to the window and, while d’Artagnan was marvelling at the wonders of Louvre’s landscape, Aramis was oddly silent.

D’Artagnan looked over to his companion. ‘Aramis?’ he asked softly. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Oh— um, nothing. I was just thinking,’ he said slowly, ‘about Jacques Bonacieux.’

‘He’s a piece of—’

‘D’Artagnan, prefect,’ hissed Aramis quickly, before his friend could get caught swearing. The bus wasn’t especially busy and they didn’t want to be docked house points on the first day.

‘Oh, right, um—yeah, well, he’s awful,’ stammered d’Artagnan. ‘I mean, how could he act like that? And to his own sister?’

‘He’s hiding something. _They’re_ hiding something.’

‘Everyone’s bloody hiding something,’ said d’Artagnan under his breath. Then he said, louder, ‘Milady was quick to come up with a plot against him.’

‘Clearly she likes causing trouble,’ said Aramis gleefully. ‘As do I. Which is why Athos, Porthos and I are friends in the first place.’

‘Apparently you got into some mischief on the intake day,’ commented d’Artagnan.

‘We did,’ he confirmed. ‘But why weren’t you there?’

D’Artagnan looked a little embarrassed. ‘Farm duties,’ he said in a quiet voice.

‘Ah,’ said Aramis in a tone that was supposed to sound understanding, but showed that he didn’t really understand what d’Artagnan’s way of life was.

The bus suddenly ground to a halt. ‘We’re here,’ said d’Artagnan brightly, and the two got off, hurrying into the first-year house. There were a few others from their year in the common room, although it looked like most of them had retired to their dorms until dinner, which was going to be at half-past five, if the sign on the dining room door was anything to go by.

‘Where do you want to go?’ asked Aramis. ‘We can stay in the common room or we can go up into our dorm.’

‘I’d quite like to stay in the common room,’ said d’Artagnan. ‘After all, we didn’t get to stay in there for very long last night.’

The two sat on beanbags in front of a fireplace, smiling at the thought of their exciting first day at Louvre. Both were so deep in thought that neither of them noticed a painting of an elderly, wizened man hung up on the wall, smiling down at them with crinkled, twinkling eyes.


	6. Alchimie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘I can feel it. It’s almost like I—I know him. And when he looked at me; when he said my name – it was almost familiar, as if he’d said it before.’

Of all the things Louis de Bourbon hated about being the Headmaster’s son, it was that people expected him to know everything about Oliver Harthouse. _Dieu_ , he _wished_ he knew everything about Oliver Harthouse.

If he knew _anything_ about Harthouse, he’d sell information to some rich American and make money off of his knowledge on the most secretive man in France— _enfer_ , the most secretive man in all the world!

The only person who didn’t see him as _Bourbon, the Headmaster’s son_ was Anne. Anne, beautiful, beautiful Anne—she was the only person who he could wholly trust. They had been best friends for years, and there was nobody at Louvre who knew him more than Anne knew him, and nobody at Louvre knew Anne more than he knew Anne. The best thing about her was that she had always been there for him.

She was there when he was five and was a shepherd in the Nativity—she had been a sheep—and she was there when they were seven and rode their bicycles into the woods; she was there when he broke his leg climbing a tree to get down the next-door neighbours’ football; she was there when he had chickenpox and subsequently gave it to her.

So he was extremely upset to find out that Anne wasn’t going to be in the same House as him. How could they be there for each other if they weren’t even in the same House?

But Anne, lovely, lovely Anne, had reassured him on the train that they would still be together and, as she had shown him on the timetable, they still had lessons together sometimes.

* * *

Aramis and d’Artagnan were excited about their first lesson with another House. Today they were going to be sharing Chemistry with Andromeda and, as they hurried towards their classroom, they looked to see if they could spot Porthos in his purple-and-silver tie or the fish on his similarly-coloured crest.

‘Look, there he is!’ cried d’Artagnan, waving his arm in the air. ‘Porthos!’

Porthos grinned, and the two hurried over to where he was stood outside the classroom. ‘Any idea when Mlle. Caillat’s gonna get here?’ he asked.

Aramis shrugged. ‘What’s it like for you?’ he asked. ‘I mean, none of us are in your House. I have d’Artagnan, Athos has Milady, but you’re on your own.’

‘Oh, I sit wi’ Anne a lot,’ said Porthos casually.

‘Anne?’ Aramis’s eyes widened. ‘As in Anne Habsburg? The Spanish Ambassador’s daughter?’

‘Yep,’ said Porthos. He seemed to be dragging this out as long as he could. ‘But I think she might be wi’ Louis this lesson.’

Both d’Artagnan and Aramis turned to see if they could find them. Louis was leant against the wall, speaking with Anne. Her fair hair was tied up in a bun, and she smiled even in her eyes when she spoke with him. She was wearing a black skirt which, in Aramis’s opinion, only made her look more elegant and beautiful. It couldn’t be more obvious that she was a paid student; that she was of importance.

Mlle. Caillat was a tall, thin, blonde woman who was most certainly not young. She marched into the classroom, and the group of eleven-year-olds followed behind her. Aramis, d’Artagnan and Porthos quickly sat on the middle desk, and Anne and Louis sat on the opposite end.

Mlle. Caillat, they soon found, was extremely strict. Anne spent the majority of the lesson scribbling down notes and, subsequently, Aramis spent the majority of the lesson staring at Anne. Towards the end of the lesson, Mlle. Callait set homework, provoking a chorus of groans from the class. She was, however, adamant.

As the class left, Anne approached Aramis. ‘If you want we can do the homework together in the library,’ she offered. ‘Bring your friends with you.’

‘Uh, yeah,’ said Aramis. D’Artagnan snickered from behind, noticing that his friend had gone bright red and was speechless as to what to say next. ‘Um, bye!’

He hurried out of the door and d’Artagnan would’ve burst out laughing if it wasn’t for Porthos dragging him away. ‘C’mon,’ he said, ‘le’s go find the others.’

Break was a spectacularly quiet affair. Milady commented that Cassiopeia had Alchemy with Sirius next, but she didn’t seem too thrilled about it. When d’Artagnan asked what was wrong, it was Athos who answered and told him it didn’t matter. Aramis was still trying to make his face go back to its original colour. Constance hadn’t even turned up, and things were oddly strange without seeing the auburn-haired girl with her head lost in a book.

D’Artagnan was glad when the bell rang for third period.

The Alchemy teacher began the class by sitting his pupils in alphabetical order. He was a rather odd-looking man, with a curly white beard, but hardly any hair on his head. He wore a purple tie and rainbow-coloured laces on his otherwise smart, black shoes.

D’Artagnan was sat at the front, and he saw that he was nowhere near Aramis, Athos or Milady, who were nowhere near each other either.

Pierre began the lesson by talking about a man named Nicholas Flamel, who d’Artagnan recognised from Constance’s book.

‘Flamel, along with his wife Perenelle, is credited with the making of the philosopher’s stone. Can anyone tell me what the philosopher’s stone is? Ah, yes—Milady.’

‘The philosopher’s stone is a—a substance that can turn metals like, uh, lead into gold.’

‘Correct!’ M. Pierre had an excited grin on his face. ‘Can anyone name anything else the Flamel created? Milady, again? Very well then.’

‘He also created the elixir of life, sir. If you drank it, it was supposed to make you immortal.’

‘You say “supposed”, Milady. Why?’ asked Pierre. His voice was not mocking, but expressed a sincere curiosity.

‘Because nobody knows if it was real or not,’ said Milady softly. She was aware of the class’s eyes on her and her eyes slowly moved down to the table. ‘We know that Nicholas and Perenelle Flamel were real, but the existence of a philosopher’s stone or an elixir of life has never been proven.’

‘Correct, again,’ said Pierre. ‘Now, I’d like everyone to copy this down.’ He moved towards the blackboard and began to draw a symbol, which showed a circle, with a triangle inside of it, and then inside the triangle was a square, and then, inside the square was a circle. He wrote underneath, “Squaring the circle”.

‘This is the alchemical symbol for the philosopher’s stone,’ he explained. ‘Now, there are two different colours of the philosopher’s stone—yes, Milady, I know you know the answer,’ he said gently, ‘but I’d like to give someone else a chance to guess. Can anyone take a guess? No?’

D’Artagnan was stumped as to how Milady knew all the answers. Had she read all her course books before she’d started?

‘Please, sir, the philosopher’s stone is either red or white. The white stone would make silver, and the red stone would make gold.’

‘Correct,’ said Pierre. ‘The white stone is, in fact, a less mature version of the red stone, according to alchemical text.’

D’Artagnan hurried to write this down underneath the symbol he’d just copied.

‘And now we move on to a process called _magnum opus_ , which is the creation of the philosopher’s stone. Is anyone here studying Latin?’

Aramis slowly raised his hand.

‘Ah, young man. René d’Herblay, I assume? Indeed. Can you translate for us?’

‘Uh – The Great Work, I think.’

‘Correct,’ beamed Pierre, his eyes twinkling. ‘And there are four stages to creating the philosopher’s stone. The first one is _nigredo_ , the blackening of the first matter. Then there is _albedo_ , the whitening of the first matter, and _citrinitas_ , in which it yellows. The final stage—the reddening—is called _rubedo_.’ He wrote this down on the blackboard in a simpler format, which the students hurriedly copied down.

The bell rang suddenly, and d’Artagnan sighed. He’d quite enjoyed listening to Pierre talk. He packed his things away and began to leave. Milady hurried past, banging into his shoulder and knocking his bag as she went. ‘What’s wrong with _her_?’ he asked Athos.

Athos refused to answer. He hurried on after her, leaving d’Artagnan and Aramis stood in the doorway, both very confused about what had just happened.

* * *

After Literature, Aramis and d’Artagnan made their way to the library. Anne, Louis and Porthos were sat together in the corner, and the two hurried to join them. Leant over their papers, they shared answers until they were finally finished, cursing Mlle. Caillat under their breaths. Anne untied her hair and it cascaded down her back. D’Artagnan nudged Aramis, who was gaping in awe at her. He let out a surprised cough and looked away as his face turned a shade of crimson.

Suddenly, a very breathless Constance hurried into the library. ‘Milady told me you’ve had Alchemy,’ she hissed.

‘Yeah,’ said d’Artagnan.

‘What do you think of Pierre?’ she asked. ‘There’s something about him, isn’t there—?’

‘Uh, no,’ said Aramis, whose face had quickly returned back to its original colour, thanks to Constance’s surprise entrance.

‘There is,’ she insisted. ‘I can feel it. It’s almost like I—I _know_ him. And when he _looked_ at me; when he said my _name—_ it was almost familiar, as if he’d said it before.’

‘But you _don’t_ know him,’ said d’Artagnan.

‘No,’ confirmed Constance.

‘Odd,’ commented Anne.

Louis nodded in agreement. ‘Are you sure you don’t know him?’ he asked. ‘Maybe you’ve met him before, you know, when you were really young?’

‘No,’ said Constance firmly. ‘I can’t have. I’m a scholarship girl, remember?’

‘But what about Jacques?’ asked Aramis. ‘You said your parents paid for him but not you. So clearly you have _some_ Louvre blood in you.’

‘Yeah,’ she said quietly. ‘Maybe. But I—I don’t think it’s that.’ She opened her mouth as if to say something, but forced it shut and gave another look at Louis. ‘Maybe it is like you say. Maybe I _have_ met him.’

‘Hm,’ said d’Artagnan. ‘You should ask him next Alchemy lesson.’

He began to pack his books away, looking up at the clock behind the librarian’s desk. ‘Look at the time,’ he said quickly. ‘We’ll be late for dinner if we don’t hurry.’

‘We’d better go to Andromeda tower,’ said Anne. Her voice sounded like chimes in the wind, and she smiled again, this time at Porthos. She rose from her seat and grabbed her leather satchel. Porthos was quick to follow, and the two left the library.

‘Give me that,’ said Constance, nodding towards d’Artagnan’s Chemistry exercise book. It was extremely light; this wouldn’t hurt … _much_. She took the book and hit Aramis upside the head with it.

‘Hey!’ he cried, bringing his hand to the back of his head. ‘What was that for?’

‘You were staring,’ she said, a mischievous smile in her voice, ‘again.’

D’Artagnan looked over to Louis, who didn’t seem to mind. Then again, maybe he hadn’t noticed. ‘Let’s go back to the dorms,’ he said, trying to change the subject. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.’

‘Me too,’ said Aramis, still rubbing his head. ‘Come on, Louis.’

D’Artagnan took his exercise book back from Constance and shoved it into his bag. The three boys hurried out of the library, laughing and joking as they went.

Constance sat on the table in the corner of the library alone. Was Louis right? Maybe she _had_ met M. Pierre before. Maybe he was— _no_. She couldn’t think like that. He wasn’t – he _couldn’t_ be.

Besides, if he _was_ , if she were to _ask_ , that would mean having to tell everyone everything.

But it would explain why she felt he was so familiar. It would explain why she felt like he’d said her name before; it would explain the look in his eyes—

Constance buried her head in her hands. She needed to stop with this wishful thinking.

She opened her bag and pulled out _The Mysteries of Oliver Harthouse_ , and began to read.


	7. Trois Situations Non Liées

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘What’s wrong?’ [Constance] asked, nudging Aramis gently.  
> ‘Richelieu is what’s wrong,’ he grumbled.  
> ‘Oh!’ Constance’s eyes widened in understanding, and Porthos leant over the table.  
> ‘You mean Cardinal Richelieu? The Religious Education teacher?’  
> ‘Yeah,’ sighed Aramis. ‘He’s awful.’

As the Sirius first-years filed into the classroom, d’Artagnan noted the large cross behind the teacher’s desk. ‘Told you he was a cardinal,’ hissed Louis. He was sat behind d’Artagnan and Aramis as they waited for M. Richelieu to arrive.

Aramis was practically dancing in his seat. ‘What’s wrong?’ asked d’Artagnan in concern.

‘Nothing,’ he grinned. ‘When do you think he’ll get here? I wonder what we’re doing first?’

‘Wasn’t Constance reading that book on Wicca?’ asked d’Artagnan. ‘I bet we’ll be doing about that.’

Suddenly, the door slammed shut and M. Richelieu stormed in, a whirlwind of black robes. A glittery gold cross hung from a chain around his neck.

He turned around to the blackboard, not even bothering to address the class, and wrote _CARDINAL RICHELIEU_ in large, printed capitals. He opened a stack of blue exercise books covered in plastic and handed them out to the class.

He stopped as he placed a book in front of d’Artagnan, and stared at the boy with a piercing gaze. ‘Hm,’ he said and returned to the front of the class.

‘Date,’ he said simply, and then wrote upon the blackboard, underneath where he’d printed his name; _Inchoationis Christi_. ‘Title,’ he said, and quickly the students wrote them down.

Richelieu scanned the students, looking at each of their faces until he finally settled on d’Artagnan. The boy squirmed anxiously underneath the cardinal’s piercing gaze. He swore Richelieu was looking into his soul. Maybe he was searching for sin.

‘Monsieur d’Artagnan,’ said Richelieu—how did he know what d’Artagnan’s name was? ‘Can you name one of the patron saints of France?’

‘Uh, no sir,’ he said quietly. Aramis’s hand shot up into the air.

‘I can, sir!’

Richelieu clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth in a tutting noise. ‘Very well. Can you tell me which saints visited Joan of Arc in a vision?’

‘Uh, no sir,’ was d’Artagnan’s reply.

‘Well, in that case, you won’t be able to tell me when she was born, will you?’

‘No, sir, but I think Ara— _René_ knows,’ said d’Artagnan. Aramis was waving his hand frantically in the air.

‘What a shame,’ said Richelieu in a scathing voice. ‘That will be five points from Sirius for your inability to answer three simple questions about your own religion. And, for your information, our patron saints are Martin of Tours, Saint Rémi, Saint Thérèse of Lisieux, and Joan of Arc. The saints who visited Joan of Arc were St. Michael, St. Catherine and St. Margaret, and she was born on the 6th January 1412.’ He paused and then said harshly, ‘Well? Why aren’t you all writing this down?’

The students hurried to scribble down what Richelieu had said. Nobody dared ask him to repeat himself.

The lesson consisted of Richelieu dictating to them, and the students writing down notes as he spoke. Those who didn’t catch what he’d said simply had to make do without.

Aramis’s attitude towards Religious Education had turned on its head by the time the cardinal dismissed the class for break. He hurried down to the lunch hall with d’Artagnan in tow, cursing Cardinal Richelieu under his breath.

They sat down opposite Athos, Milady and Porthos, and they were quickly joined by Constance. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, nudging Aramis gently.

‘Richelieu is what’s wrong,’ he grumbled.

‘Oh!’ Constance’s eyes widened in understanding, and Porthos leant over the table.

‘You mean Cardinal Richelieu? The Religious Education teacher?’

‘Yeah,’ sighed Aramis. ‘He’s _awful_.’

‘Talk about it,’ said Porthos. ‘He started askin’ Anne all these difficul’ questions, an’ when she couldn’t answer ‘em, he said somethin’ like “Clearly status in’t everythin’”.’

Aramis furrowed his brows.

‘Have you had Religious Education yet?’ asked d’Artagnan to Milady and Athos.

‘No, not yet,’ said Athos, ‘but by the looks of it we’ll need to be prepared.’

Milady’s face paled, and she grabbed Athos’s arm. ‘You don’t think he’ll ask me about—’ she made a gesture that showed that Athos knew what she was talking about, even if nobody else did, ‘—do you?’

‘No, of course not,’ said Athos, but his voice was laced with uncertainty.

D’Artagnan could see that Aramis was clearly uncomfortable with the fact that both Milady and Athos were keeping things from them, but it was Milady’s secret to tell, and so d’Artagnan kept quiet.

* * *

With fourth period came d’Artagnan, Aramis and Louis’s first Astronomy lesson. They hurried into the classroom, which was so dark that Louis accidentally stood on d’Artagnan’s toes. The Astronomy teacher, a short dark-haired woman, instructed the class to lie on the floor on their backs. D’Artagnan was glad that the floor was mostly carpeted, and he was surprised to find that the carpet was extremely soft and comfortable. It turned out that the class were going to be identifying stars, and different constellations were projected onto the ceiling. Aramis and d’Artagnan found this difficult, but Astronomy seemed to be the subject in which Louis simply _shone_.

Louis and Anne joined them at lunch, where a worn-out Porthos complained about Physical Education. By Anne’s description, it seemed that the boys had it harder than the girls. Aramis, Louis and d’Artagnan silently agreed that that was the one subject they were _not_ looking forward to.

‘Anyway,’ said d’Artagnan suddenly, realising that two from their group were missing, ‘where’s Constance and Milady?’

‘Library,’ said Athos. ‘Milady went to meet Constance there after Chemistry.’

Aramis was clearly sceptical; he didn’t like the idea of secrets, d’Artagnan knew. Himself? He wanted the conversation to end. Although he didn’t like secrets either, he knew everybody had them and they were usually for a reason. Besides, people had the right to keep secrets, especially if telling them could put them in an uncomfortable—or even _dangerous—_ situation.

* * *

Pierre was late to class. This was the reason the Sirius students were stood outside the Alchemy classroom. Whilst d’Artagnan was a little confused—Pierre didn’t seem the type of teacher to be late to his lesson—Aramis called over a student d’Artagnan didn’t recognise.

‘Marsac!’ he cried, waving over a pale-faced, fair-haired boy, who was slightly shorter than d’Artagnan—the shortest amongst him and his friends. ‘I thought you said you weren’t going to make it to Louvre this year!’

‘Yeah, I thought that too,’ grinned Marsac, ‘but the doctors gave it a second look over and they said if I stayed stable for a few nights I’d be given the OK to come! I have to be really careful, of course, but _papa_ Jean is here to keep an eye on me. I have to stay in his quarters—I’m not allowed in the dorms—just to be safe, but other than that, I’m well enough to be here. I got here an hour ago; we were just unpacking, but _papa_ said I could come to this lesson if I really wanted to.’ He laughed a little. D’Artagnan, not knowing anything about Marsac, had to do some guesswork and he figured that Marsac’s father was a teacher at Louvre. Why he referred to his father using his first name was beyond d’Artagnan, though.

‘That’s great!’ smiled Aramis. ‘Oh, Marsac—this is d’Artagnan. D’Artagnan, this is my friend from home—Marsac.’

‘It’s nice to meet you,’ said d’Artagnan. Although he wondered what was wrong with Marsac, he didn’t want to be rude and so he didn’t ask.

Marsac grinned. ‘It’s nice to meet you, too. Say, when do you think Pierre will get here? Is he strict?’ He loosened his tie, glancing about. It was obvious he was excited to be here.

‘No, no,’ said d’Artagnan quickly, ‘he’s not strict at all. He’s a little odd, but his class is really interesting. I think Alchemy is one of my favourite subjects.’

‘Mine too,’ agreed Aramis, ‘although Mythology pulls a close second.’

Aramis smiled as he spotted Pierre coming down the corridor in their direction. ‘That’s him,’ he said, and Marsac turned. Today, Pierre was dressed in green, and had on dark boots.

‘You were right,’ he commented. ‘Say, he _is_ odd. He looks like he’s from the fifteenth century. Are you sure he’s not a time-traveller?’ Marsac snickered at his own joke.

D’Artagnan frowned and, although he didn’t think Marsac was trying to be cruel, he didn’t appreciate the comment. He kept his mouth shut though; this was Aramis’s friend, after all. Marsac couldn’t be _that_ bad.

Pierre’s lesson had not lost the fascination that it had last lesson. He taught about Nicolas and Perenelle’s life, and also talked about how they were devout Catholics— _finally, something about religion that isn’t taught by that awful Richelieu,_ thought Aramis gleefully—before setting the class a research task. Aramis, Marsac and d’Artagnan grouped together to produce a poster on the philosopher’s stone as well as snippets about Nicolas Flamel.

‘He’s a really interesting guy,’ commented Marsac. ‘Say, I wonder if the philosopher’s stone is real. I wonder if it’s hidden somewhere.’

‘That _would_ be cool,’ agreed Aramis. He passed d’Artagnan a red felt pen so that he could colour in the stone he had drawn.

‘I take back what I said about Pierre, by the way,’ said Marsac, flicking through the textbook to find more information. ‘His clothes are still odd, but he’s a really good teacher.’

D’Artagnan smiled. He felt as though he would be good friends with Marsac. Although the boy was outspoken, he wasn’t mean, and besides—Aramis was his friend. That had to count for something, right?

* * *

Milady grinned at Constance, who was eyeing her up warily. ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘all you have to do is _take_ them and drop them in his bag. It’s always open, right?’

‘Always,’ she said. ‘He never closes it.’

Milady smirked. ‘That’s usually the meaning of the word “always”.’ She laughed a little, and then nudged the Perseus girl. ‘Come on, Constance,’ she urged, ‘nothing _bad_ ’s going to happen to you. It’s only a little prank.’

Constance sighed in defeat. ‘Fine, I’ll do it. But do I _really_ have to touch any of that?’ She glanced in the direction of the pile of laundry.

‘Yes,’ said Milady firmly. She bent down and began pulling a pair of shorts from the pile. ‘There _must_ be a pair of boxers in here somewhere. Help me, Constance. If I have to shove my hands in a pile of piss-stained underwear, then you do too.’

‘Hey, I never put you in this situation,’ argued Constance. ‘You did it willingly.’ All the same, she bent down and began rifling through the wet garments, grimacing as she did so. ‘Here,’ she said with triumph, pulling out a pair of black underpants, ‘these look similar to something Jacques would wear.’

‘Then we’ll take these,’ said Milady firmly. She stood up and helped Constance up. ‘So, you know the plan, right?’ she asked. ‘Find your brother, talk to him and drop the underwear in, and meet me in the library. He’s definitely coming back there, isn’t he?’

‘He’s meeting Rochefort and two of his other friends there,’ she confirmed. Quickly she shoved the underwear into her own satchel and hurried towards English Literature, where she knew Jacques would still be. Being his twin, she knew he loved English and would probably be talking to the teacher about a book he’d read. Although Constance also liked English, and fiction could be riveting at times, she preferred _learning_ to reading stories.

The classroom was empty except for Jacques and M. Lemoine, who was sat at his desk, marking work. Jacques was reading on one of the tables in the middle of the classroom. Constance smiled to herself. Milady was right. This was going to be _easy_.

She stood over him as he read. He knew she was here; he’d just neglected to say hello. She didn’t know if that was because he was caught up with reading or he was being an ass again. Her brother switched from being nice to being absolutely horrible so often Constance never knew which Jacques she was talking to.

‘What’re you reading?’ she asked.

‘ _Oliver Twist_ ,’ he murmured, flicking the page. Jacques’s satchel was on the floor next to his chair, and without a moment’s hesitation, she dropped the underwear on the top.

‘Why don’t you read that in the library?’ she asked. ‘And anyway, I thought you were meeting Rochefort in there?’

Jacques looked up in panic. ‘I forgot!’ he cried. ‘Look, can you hurry along and tell him I’m still coming?’

‘Sure,’ said Constance easily. ‘Take your time. I’ll tell him you got stopped in the corridor.’

Constance made it to the library in no time. Rochefort and two of his friends were sat at the front, and Milady was at the back, hiding behind a copy of _Magical Powers and Where They Come From_. ‘How did it go?’ she hissed as Constance sat down.

‘I told him to take his time getting here,’ she said, so the two studied the book a little until Jacques arrived, book in one hand.

He dumped the bag on the table and sat down, opening the book again and pulling out the bookmark. Rochefort snorted and rolled his eyes. The four seemed oblivious to the two girls watching them in anticipation.

‘Hey, what’s this?’ came Rochefort’s voice. He pulled out the underwear, grimacing as he did so. ‘Did you _piss_ yourself?’

Jacques Bonacieux had the unfortunate ability to look guilty even if he was totally innocent. His face was as red as his tie. Even his ears had gone pink.

‘ _Mon Dieu_ , you did!’ cried Rochefort. He grimaced even more and practically flung the underwear back into Bonacieux’s satchel. ‘Ugh, go away, will you?’

‘Yeah,’ chimed in one of the black-haired boys. ‘We don’t want a pisshead like you around here.’

Bonacieux grabbed his satchel, his book still in one hand, and took a glance around the library to see who else had witnessed it. He suddenly met eyes with Constance, tears of mirth streaming down her face. His eyes narrowed, and Constance quickly shut up. She sobered with the knowledge that Jacques knew _exactly_ who had done it. The boy turned on his heel and stormed out of the room.

Milady grinned and nudged Constance, who had gone very pale indeed. ‘Hey, that was funny,’ she said. ‘You did really well; I’ve never seen a prank so well-executed. Perhaps we should do another—’ She stopped upon seeing the look on Constance’s face. ‘What’s wrong? Didn’t you find that fun?’

‘He knows. He knows we did it,’ she said quietly. ‘He’s going to _kill_ me. Or worse, he’ll write home. _Dieu_ , I hope he doesn’t write home.’

And Milady suddenly regretted ever convincing Constance to do the prank. Something was very, very wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've finally introduced Richelieu! I'm hoping to introduce some Series 3 characters (I made reference to a couple here) soon, and Treville should be making a real appearance in the next chapter!  
> (Also considering bringing the rating up due to a little bit of language in this chapter. If anyone's concerned about it, please say so.)


	8. Vendredi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘Look,’ said Porthos, pointing in the direction of a door with a golden lion knocker. Hung on the wall next to it was a wooden shield with the five mascots of Louvre carved into it. ‘Tha’ mus’ be the Headmaster’s office.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friendly reminder that there's a score for this fic [here](http://8tracks.com/lykxxn/i-m-coming-home)!

By third period the next day, almost all the first-year students knew of the prank pulled on Bonacieux. Aramis, d’Artagnan, Louis and Marsac were discussing it on the way to History.

‘That was _our_ prank,’ hissed Aramis. ‘So one of us has to have done it. Who else would’ve had the idea?’

‘Someone could’ve overheard,’ countered d’Artagnan, ‘but I think you’re right. I doubt Porthos would do it. Could someone pull it off on their own?’

‘Yes, definitely,’ said Marsac, who had been listening to their conversation with great interest. ‘If there is someone who knows Bonacieux enough to talk to him and, well, _do it_ without him noticing, then yes.’

‘Constance must have done it,’ said Aramis quietly.

‘No,’ said d’Artagnan. ‘Constance wouldn’t just do that! Besides, she wasn’t here when Milady suggested it.’

Aramis smiled craftily. ‘There’s your answer. Constance did it, but Milady was the brains behind it.’

Their conversation came to a halt just outside the History classroom. The teacher—although greying—was tall and muscular, with a strong build.

This was M. Treville, Marsac’s father and an old school-friend of Alexandre d’Artagnan. He had been in the army once, when he was younger, and had a limp that was barely noticeable until one pointed it out. He had an authoritative voice and stood tall but kind amongst the first-years. He had an ability with students that could only be obtained after years of experience; he could make even the shiest child come out of their shell. He made the lessons interesting through little jokes of his own, and by sixth year most students had grown very attached to him. He and Richelieu, who was head of Arcturus, even had a rivalry going on—or so the older students said.

‘ _Bonjour, papa_.’ Marsac greeted his father with a small grin on his face.

‘ _Bonjour, petit chien_ ,’ replied Treville gently. It was the tone of voice that could only be taken on by a parent talking to their child, and suddenly d’Artagnan understood why his father and Treville were such good friends.

Quickly the class took their seats. Treville’s room was quite unlike all the other classrooms—instead of desks, there were tables big enough for four students to sit at the same time. Marsac, d’Artagnan, Louis and Aramis sat together in the middle of the room, and Treville handed out red exercise books.

‘Now, we all like History, don’t we?’ he asked cheerfully. There were mostly cheers from the Sirius students, apart from several moans in the corner of the class. Treville seemed to ignore them, instead picking up an upturned hat from his desk. ‘Okay, I’m going to ask you to pick a name from this hat … Uh, _Louis_ , why don’t you come up first?’

Louis stood up and grinned. Closing his eyes, he picked out one of the folded pieces of paper. ‘Uh, it says Ninon,’ he said. A blonde-haired girl at the back raised her hand.

‘That’s me,’ she said excitedly. She stood up and approached Treville.

‘Aha! Good,’ he said, ‘so Ninon and Louis are going to do some acting for us!’

Louis stared at him, crestfallen. Ninon, however looked delighted at the idea.

‘So, Louis, you’re convinced that Ninon here is a witch,’ prompted Treville.

Aramis grinned. ‘Burn her!’ he cried. ‘Burn the witch!’

Treville’s thin lips twisted into an amused smile. ‘Yes,’ he chuckled, ‘although maybe not as loud. I’d like to keep my job instead of being fired for burning students at the stake.’ He reached for a dark wooden walking stick that was leant against the desk and said, ‘So this term we are learning about witches. Ninon, Louis, you can sit back down now. Five points to Sirius each for taking part.’ The two scurried back to their seats. ‘So can anyone guess what sort of people were accused of being witches?’

D’Artagnan raised his hand. ‘People with cats?’

The class laughed, but Treville shook his head. ‘No, no. He’s right. Cats were known as ‘familiars’ and that’s where we get the idea of witches having cats from. Our witches nowadays are also known for being warty and ugly—why is that?’

Marsac shyly raised his hand. ‘Isn’t that because of the plague? Didn’t plague sufferers have warts on them? Besides, life at that time was harsh. There was no cleanliness and people washed themselves in sewer water—if they _did_ wash themselves, that is.’

Treville was practically beaming. ‘Yes, yes,’ he said enthusiastically.

‘Please sir, then why are all witches nowadays women?’ asked Ninon.

‘Well, that was the stereotypical image,’ said Treville. ‘Now, we’re tying in with religion here—but many of the Puritan Christians thought that women were impure and connected to the devil—’

‘—because of Eve!’ interrupted Aramis in his excitement. ‘Eve ate Satan’s apple!’

Treville laughed. ‘Yes, yes. You’re right. Because all the Christians knew the tale of Eve and the apple, they automatically assumed that all women were evil.’

Aramis frowned. ‘They were wrong,’ he said sullenly. ‘That’s not true.’

‘So,’ said Treville, ‘I’d like you to open your exercise books and list all the ways to find out whether someone was a witch or not.’

D’Artagnan wrote down _burning_ , _pricking with a knife_ and _dumping into a river_ and then, after glancing at Marsac’s book, scribbled down _starvation_.

‘But they were all rigged,’ said Louis. ‘If they burnt you and you were a witch, they’d hang you. If they burnt you and you weren’t a witch, you’d be released, but you’d be _dead_.’

‘Very good,’ said Treville. ‘Charles, can you name me any other ways to discover a witch?’

‘Um, they sometimes pricked people with knives,’ said d’Artagnan nervously.

Treville leant against his stick for a moment. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But do you know what some crafty witch hunters used to do? They would make the knives so that they retracted when they went to prick someone.’

‘So it would look like they didn’t draw blood when they were ‘pricked’!’ exclaimed Marsac.

‘Yes, that’s right! Catching more witches meant more money for the witch hunters, and there was nothing people wanted more than money—except power, maybe.’

Treville’s lesson ended far too soon.

‘Why does your dad have that stick?’ asked Aramis on the way to Cultural Studies.

‘Oh, he was in the army,’ said Marsac. ‘Got a bullet to his leg. It wasn’t bad enough to be amputated, but sometimes he needs his stick to get around.’

‘Oh,’ said Aramis, unsure of what to say at first. ‘Do you think he’ll tell us stories about the army?’

‘Probably not,’ said Marsac, and then he shrugged. ‘It depends. Sometimes he’s alright about it and sometimes he doesn’t want to talk about it. I think it hurts him.’

‘What does?’ asked d’Artagnan.

‘Thinking about it. I mean, he got shot. He had to watch people get worse, like blown up and stuff.’

D’Artagnan shuddered. ‘That sounds bad. I wouldn’t want to talk about it either.’

* * *

D’Artagnan and Aramis met the others in the library. Milady and Constance were giggling to each other, and suddenly Aramis remembered. ‘Was it you?’ he asked.

‘Of course it was,’ said Milady casually. She didn’t even need to ask what they were talking about. ‘Well, actually, it was all Constance. We wouldn’t have gotten anywhere without her.’

Constance smiled shyly. Athos was playing hangman with Porthos, and so far it read _ A R _ _ _ U S E.

‘Anyway, come on,’ grinned Milady, ‘it’s Friday—that means we can do whatever we want. Curfew’s been raised.’

Athos raised his eyebrows. ‘Like what?’

‘Explore, of course!’

And so the six eleven-year-olds made their way through the long, winding corridors of Louvre. ‘Look,’ said Porthos, pointing in the direction of a door with a golden lion knocker. Hung on the wall next to it was a wooden shield with the five mascots of Louvre carved into it. ‘Tha’ mus’ be the Headmaster’s office.’

‘Yeah,’ agreed Aramis. ‘There must be another way in, like a back entrance.’

Milady grinned. ‘Remember how I said about the teacher’s dorms? Well, there’s a way in from the outside. And if my calculations are correct, there must be an entrance to Bourbon’s quarters through there. All the teachers are busy at the moment; it’s the perfect time to sneak in!’

As d’Artagnan and Aramis hurried to catch up to Milady, who was already halfway down the corridor, the smaller boy mouthed, ‘How does she know this?’

Aramis shook his head. He didn’t know.

They made their way around the outside of Louvre. It was almost four o’clock; they had plenty of time, or so Milady reassured them. They were practically up to their knees in grass. It was obvious that whoever mowed the grass mowed it at the beginning of January and let it grow until the next year.

‘Look,’ said Milady finally, pointing to a small door. ‘This is it.’

‘So, you’re sayin’ if we go in here, we’ll be able to get into the Head’s office?’ clarified Porthos.

‘Yeah, and we’ll finally be able to get Harthouse’s documents,’ said Milady.

D’Artagnan suddenly realised what they had discussed on their first day. He was pretty sure everyone else had forgotten about it except Milady. Why was she so set on finding out about Harthouse?

Milady wiggled the doorknob. She swore quietly. ‘It’s locked … Wait!’ She pulled out something from in her hair—a hairgrip, the rational part of d’Artagnan said—and began to bend it until it looked flat. She put it inside the keyhole and wiggled it about until there was a quiet _click_. The door swung open.

Rather than seeing an actual dorm, they were stood in a long hallway with several other hallways leading off. D’Artagnan gaped in awe. The teachers had private _quarters_.

‘Come on,’ urged Milady quietly, ‘this way.’

She led them down the corridor. It went on and on and on … until, at last, there was a tall, winding wooden staircase. All this time they had been silent in their awe, partly fearful that they should be caught.

At once the spell was broken. They began to whisper to each other, grinning in the delight that they were somewhere that was forbidden.

Milady went up the stairs first, followed silently by Athos, and then by Constance, nervously chewing her nails every step of the way. Then it was Porthos, and the wood creaked on every step, followed by a squeak of ‘Sorry!’ whenever it happened. Aramis and d’Artagnan went together.

The stairway opened up to another hallway, and at the end was a door. ‘That must be it,’ whispered Milady. She wiggled the doorknob. It was unlocked. Silently, the group made their way inside. There were two doors, one that must have led back to the school, and the other that must have been to his quarters. Above Bourbon’s desk was a portrait of an elderly wizened man, with twinkling blue eyes. He glanced at the group, none of whom were paying any attention.

‘I wonder what’s in ‘ere?’ said Porthos, pointing towards a large chest. It was brown and the leather was peeling off. He tried to open it but the lid simply would not budge. ‘It’s locked. I bet Bourbon’s got the key.’

‘He’s probably got the key to everything,’ said Milady in annoyance. ‘All I want is the _truth_ …’

They stood in silence, glancing around the room for any clues, but they could find none. D’Artagnan took that moment to peer out of the only window in Bourbon’s office, which was clearly as old as the school itself. The window looked over the Science classrooms, he noticed, because he could see the laboratory rooftops. If he looked the other direction, he could see the train station he had stopped at when they all arrived less than a week ago.

The six were far too preoccupied to pay any attention to anything that was going on outside the room. They didn’t even notice the man in the portrait staring directly at Constance. There was a draught of air, and they all froze up as the door opened.

‘What the hell is this? What are you doing in my office?’

They were caught.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first cliffie! The next chapter shouldn't take too long to be up because I'm not that cruel!
> 
> Hope you liked my take on Treville. I wanted to make him the familiar guy you all know and love but also give something new to him.


	9. Marsac

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Treville's] brows furrowed in increasing concern as Marsac began to cough. ‘Do you want a drink, _petit chien_?’ He didn’t wait for Marsac to answer; the drink was already poured out and on the table.  
>  Marsac’s hands shook as he sipped the water. ‘ _Papa_ , my head …’

‘Six students, wandering around my office?’ cried Bourbon incredulously. ‘I cannot _believe_ —’ He stopped and stared at them angrily. ‘What do you have to say for yourselves?’

Constance had the decency to at least look sorry; she was close to tears and d’Artagnan put a hand on her shoulder comfortingly. Milady’s hands were clenched into fists.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ she said, not sounding very sorry at all, ‘me and my friends were exploring and we found the door, so we went through it … we didn’t realise it was _your_ office.’

‘Very well,’ he said; they were just first-years after all, and it hadn’t looked as if they were _snooping_. ‘But I will be taking fifteen points each for being in my office. This room, this corridor, these _quarters_ , are off-bounds, do you understand? If I ever find you here again I will be writing home.’

The children were allowed to leave through the door that Porthos had first spotted, and they all looked pretty glum, especially Milady and Constance. Milady was furious, and Constance looked as if she was ready to burst into tears.

‘I can’t believe we were caught,’ hissed Milady. ‘Come on, Athos, I want to go back to the dorms.’ And she stormed off, Athos hot on her heels.

Constance sniffled quietly, and mumbled, ‘I have to go.’ It was clear that whoever she wanted to comfort her wasn’t here right now.

After Constance had gone off in the direction of the library, Aramis, d’Artagnan and Porthos were stood in the corridor, unsure of what to do or say. ‘Stop lingering!’ cried an annoyed Sirius prefect as he passed the three boys.

* * *

Nobody mentioned the Bourbon incident—as d’Artagnan had taken to calling it in his head—for a while. The weekend was quiet and mostly consisted of the group talking about school-related things to keep their minds occupied. All was quiet, until Monday break.

Constance hurried to the table where they usually sat, her face pale and an envelope in a death grip in her left hand. ‘M—Milady,’ she stammered, holding the envelope out over the table.

Milady’s eyes widened in understanding. Quickly she took the envelope from Constance’s hand and ripped it open. She pulled the letter out and began to read silently. Athos tried to read over her shoulder, but she moved the letter away.

‘Alright, well, the good news is that you’re not being sent home,’ said Milady. Constance breathed a sigh of relief. ‘But you have to stay here during the holidays.’

‘I had no intention of going home anyway,’ said Constance. She took the letter from Milady and shoved it in her satchel.

Whatever had happened seemed to end there.

* * *

The next month-and-a-half was chock-a-block full of work and no time for exploring or plotting. Although weekends were free, they were mostly spent doing assignments or sat in Treville’s classroom, where he would offer them hot chocolate and biscuits, and talk with them about plenty of different topics.

The students had a week’s break for Halloween, where some students went home but most stayed at Louvre.

‘What’s so great about Halloween?’ asked d’Artagnan to Marsac in Treville’s classroom. He wiped some whipped cream from his upper lip.

‘Everything!’ grinned Marsac. ‘Dad told me _everything_. We all have this huge party and everyone gets to join in! You can go round the school all night and play games and watch spooky films—but mostly the older years do that. We can play the games though; there’s fun stuff like making stink bombs and fake blood and it’s really cool because now we’re off school we all get to pitch in and make costumes and stuff … Oh! We get loads of sweets, too.’

‘That soun’s like the _best_ ,’ said Porthos.

The five students—Aramis, d’Artagnan, Porthos, Marsac, Louis, and Constance—spent the remainder of the night laughing and joking, until Treville reminded them that it was getting close to curfew and that they should head back to their dorms.

The next morning, d’Artagnan and Aramis were in Treville’s room again. Marsac joined them after breakfast. He looked a little pale but he grinned at them. ‘Let’s play cards,’ he suggested. ‘Dad says I’m looking a bit peaky so I’ve gotta take it easy.’

‘Go Fish?’ suggested Aramis.

Treville sat at his desk, watching them play. His brows furrowed in increasing concern as Marsac began to cough. ‘Do you want a drink, _petit chien_?’ He didn’t wait for Marsac to answer; the drink was already poured out and on the table.

Marsac’s hands shook as he sipped the water. ‘ _Papa_ , my head …’

Aramis’s eyes widened, but d’Artagnan looked confused. He didn’t understand.

‘Both of you go and get the _infirmière_ ,’ said Treville quickly. ‘Now.’

Aramis and d’Artagnan were out of the door as soon as they could get there.

‘I don’t understand,’ cried d’Artagnan as he ran. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Marsac’s sick, like _really_ sick,’ replied Aramis.

‘What, like _dying_ sick?’ asked d’Artagnan.

‘I don’t know,’ said Aramis. ‘Nobody’s ever told me how bad it is.’

Both out of breath, they barged into the nurse’s office. ‘M—Marsac,’ stammered Aramis, sinking into an empty chair as he tried to get his breath back.

The _infirmière_ ’s eyes widened in surprise. She grabbed a bag from on her desk and left without a word. She seemed to know what was going on.

‘He’ll be okay, right?’ asked d’Artagnan to a shaky Aramis.

‘I—I guess so,’ he stammered. ‘I mean, it’s happened before, so …’

‘And he’s bounced right back?’ said d’Artagnan. ‘So I’m sure it’ll happen again.’

‘It’s just scary. Really scary.’

* * *

Treville and Marsac were out of school all week, and it didn’t look like they’d be back for Halloween either. They all met at the entrance of the school. Aramis and Athos were vampires; d’Artagnan was a werewolf; Constance was dressed as Alice in Wonderland; Milady was Mary Poppins, and even had an umbrella; Porthos was Frankenstein’s monster; and Louis and Anne were dressed as royalty.

‘That’s not scary,’ said Aramis, but said nothing else on the matter.

The halls were lit by candlelight, and there were themed decorations on the walls, including sticky spiders and cobwebs. There were signs directing the students to different activities, and the first one they passed was pumpkin carving.

They had one pumpkin between two of them, so Aramis and d’Artagnan paired up. All eight of them ended up with pumpkin on their hands and Milady dropped her umbrella on the floor. There were many different designs done by the other students and they put their pumpkins on the desk with the others. They looked especially impressive when lit up.

The next activity was apple-bobbing. There weren’t many students taking part, and since Porthos was the only one who wanted to have a go, they watched as he successfully took an apple from the bowl. He was rewarded with a handful of sweets, which he handed out evenly between the others.

Only fourth-years and above were allowed to watch the horror film, so they carried on down the hallway to Pierre’s classroom. Even though the door was open, he didn’t look as if he was expecting anyone. The old man was working by candlelight, but he looked up and beamed at the children.

‘Ah … René, Louis, Anne, Charles, Porthos, Olivier … Milady … _Constance_ … How nice it is to see you.’ He stood up in greeting. ‘Do forgive me, I am busy at the moment.’ He picked up a vial from the table and downed it in one shot.

‘It’s fine, sir … we can go if you wish,’ said Constance quietly. She scanned his face, from his wrinkled forehead down to his bushy white beard.

And so the eight children left the classroom, each equally puzzled about Pierre’s vial, but none wishing to mention it. They played hook-a-duck and Constance won several lollipops; Anne and Louis managed to win a handful of bubble-gum whilst playing darts; and Aramis, d’Artagnan and Porthos’s team won the quiz.

By the time he arrived at the Sirius dorms, d’Artagnan was exhausted. ‘That was the best night ever,’ he mumbled as he got into bed. Louis and Aramis agreed sleepily, and before the minute was up each boy was sound asleep, sickly and full of sweets, but very happy indeed.

* * *

The next morning, the three boys found themselves in Bourbon’s office after receiving a note from a prefect at the breakfast table. The man looked extremely stressed. Red-faced, he leant his arms on the desk and stared down at the boys. ‘I—I wanted to tell you now,’ he said shakily, ‘as you three were the closest … you don’t have to be there when I tell your housemates …’ The sentence withered away and Bourbon cleared his throat. ‘Your friend Marsac … he—he passed away yesterday evening.’

D’Artagnan sat in shock. He’d never known anybody who had died before, except his mother—and that wasn’t really the same thing because he’d only been two and he didn’t remember her.

‘He was going to be okay,’ came Aramis’s voice, quiet and shaky and close to breaking. ‘He was gonna bounce back just like he usually does …’

‘You’re dismissed,’ said Bourbon gently.

The three boys sat in the dorm. They sat on the floor, Aramis leant on d’Artagnan. Although Aramis was crying, he was numb and Louis was lost for words. Even though he wanted his father right now, he knew that neither Aramis nor d’Artagnan had _their_ fathers to help them through it.

Louis made hot tea for them. It wasn’t as good as Treville’s hot chocolate, but it tasted rich and they appreciated the sentiment. They sat for hours in silence, none wanting to move. They sat, silently mourning their lost friend. It was a moment that stayed with the three boys for years to come, and sometimes, as one does, they would remember, and give their friend a moment of memorial.


	10. Noël au Louvre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Milady was pelting Porthos in the back, Constance was having trouble making a snowball that would stay together. ‘Come on,’ she muttered. And then it was like magic. The snowball clumped together firmly in a perfectly round ball.

 Treville was not in school when they turned up to his lesson on Friday, and to add insult to injury, _Richelieu_ was covering his lessons until he returned. The space next to d’Artagnan’s was eerily empty, and it just made things ten times worse.

Richelieu handed out textbooks. ‘Turn to page ninety-three,’ he said loudly.

Louis flicked to the page. ‘But sir, we’re not on the Borgias right now,’ he said. ‘We’re learning about Henry the Eighth. We’ve even learnt a rhyme about his wives.’

Richelieu scowled. ‘Henry the Eighth? My, you’re more behind than I thought. Nonsense, nonsense. We shall begin the topic on the Borgias immediately.’

The class groaned, but turned to the correct page anyway.

‘Read the textbook and copy down the notes,’ instructed Richelieu, and from then the class was left to its own devices.

By the time the Christmas holidays came around, they were all yearning for a break away from Richelieu. ‘I can’t believe he set us an essay,’ complained Louis. ‘It’s _Christmas_! Can’t he be happy for once?’

Aramis, Athos and d’Artagnan went home for Christmas, and Porthos, Constance and Milady stayed at Louvre.

Christmas at Louvre was a grand affair. For the first time in almost three years, it snowed, and a thick white blanket covered the school grounds. There was a large Christmas tree in the dinner hall, and snowball fights were seen around every corner.

Milady had encouraged Porthos and Constance to join in. While Milady was pelting Porthos in the back, Constance was having trouble making a snowball that would stay together. ‘Come on,’ she muttered. And then it was like _magic_. The snowball clumped together firmly in a perfectly round ball.

Constance grinned. She hit Milady right in the face. The Cassiopeia girl laughed, spat out a few mouthfuls of snow, and began rolling another ball. It soared through the air and suddenly broke up into pieces, narrowly missing Constance by a few inches. Milady frowned, brows furrowed in frustration at having missed.

It was like magic.

* * *

Christmas morning could not have come soon enough for Milady and Porthos. Constance too was excited when she realised, for the first time in eleven years, she had presents to unwrap. The three sat in the dinner hall together, joined by a second-year Andromeda named Isabelle and a fourth-year Perseus named Emile.

They excitedly unwrapped their gifts—Constance had received a book on Nicholas Flamel from Milady; a writing set from Porthos; a set of hair ribbons from d’Artagnan; a tin of multi-coloured sweets from Aramis; some slightly lumpy homemade fudge from Athos; a framed picture of the group from Anne and Louis; and fifty cents from Jacques. Her parents clearly hadn’t bothered.

Milady was especially impressed with the practical jokes set Aramis had bought her, and Porthos’s cheeks reddened in surprise when he unwrapped the shoes and blazer they’d all pitched in to buy so that he could have brand new uniform.

Pierre made his way down to the dinner hall whilst all the students were eating. He glanced about, clearly looking for someone in particular, settled his eyes on Constance … and then Milady and Porthos, nodded once, and left. The trio were too busy tucking in to notice.

That evening the school was open to students so that they could watch films. Sleeping bags were set up in classrooms and Constance, Porthos and Milady snuggled together under a large quilt as Mulan played. They each had a mug with a hot drink; Milady had tea with honey, and Porthos and Constance had hot chocolate with whipped cream and marshmallows. They both silently agreed that it had nothing on _Treville’s_ chocolate.

Drowsy and warmed by the hot drinks, Constance leant against Porthos’s shoulder. Milady was rested on her hand, still trying to stay awake to finish the film. It was hard to work out who fell asleep first.

* * *

When the holidays finished, the trio were more than glad to see their friends Aramis, Athos, d’Artagnan, Louis, and Anne. They had also noticed a familiar face around the school, and there was nobody more relieved than the three Sirius boys to see Treville back teaching History.

‘He set us an essay!’ complained Ninon.

‘We’re not even _doing_ the Borgias!’ cried another student.

‘We tried to tell him but he wouldn’t listen!’

Treville silenced the class. ‘Relax,’ he said calmly. ‘You don’t have to turn in the essay.’

‘But I _did it_!’ cried Louis.

They were all more than glad to be back at Louvre, and they settled in well to the new term. By mid-January the holidays seemed like months ago.

D’Artagnan and Aramis were in Human Biology when they were called to Bourbon’s office. ‘I wonder why?’ said Aramis as he knocked on the door. ‘We haven’t done anything …’

When the two were called in they saw that Milady, Constance, Porthos and Athos were also in the office. ‘Sit down, boys,’ said Bourbon firmly. ‘I have a feeling you will be in here quite a while.’

D’Artagnan took a seat next to Porthos, and Aramis took one next to Athos.

‘Now that I have you all here, maybe you will make the wise decision to open your mouths,’ he said.

‘I keep telling you,’ said Milady in aggravation, ‘we haven’t done _anything_.’

‘Don’t speak to me like that, young lady,’ said Bourbon. ‘I see you have _quite_ the mouth on you.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said d’Artagnan quietly. ‘What’s going on?’

Bourbon stood up. ‘You don’t understand?’ he sneered. ‘Valuable documents have gone missing from my office!’

‘What does that have to do with _us_?’ asked Milady.

‘You, madam, are the culprits. You are the only people who have been in my office … you have been in here again and taken these documents!’

‘Please, sir, we know nothing about any documents,’ protested Constance timidly. She looked as if she had been crying.

‘We shall see about that,’ said Bourbon darkly. ‘I want you to empty your bags … immediately.’

Milady went first. She pulled out her pencil case, three books, and a folder full of papers.

‘Aha!’ exclaimed Bourbon.

‘They’re letters from my … father,’ said Milady quietly, and Bourbon flicked through them. His eyes flickered something terrible, but he handed them back to her nonetheless.

Constance pulled out several multi-coloured markers, her timetable, and her copy of _The Mysteries of Oliver Harthouse_. Porthos didn’t have much in his bag except a few broken pencils, a crumpled up drawing, and a pen which seemed to have leaked all over his satchel. Then it was d’Artagnan’s turn. He pulled out a lollipop he’d misplaced, his timetable and map, and his History textbook. Athos had his pencil case as well as two textbooks in his bag, and Aramis pulled out a crucifix necklace, a Bible, and three pencils.

Bourbon stared at the children in frustration. ‘You’re dismissed,’ he snarled, ‘but I’m watching you …’ He had his eyes directly on Milady as they left his office.

‘Valuable documents!’ she exclaimed as soon as they were out in the hallways. ‘See, see … I _told_ you! I bet they’re Harthouse’s documents … I bet that’s why Bourbon’s so furious …’

‘But who could’ve taken them?’ asked Aramis.

‘I bet I know who,’ said Athos in a low voice. ‘Rochefort … his father has been trying to get the Headmaster’s position for _years_ …’ Milady’s eyes flashed in recognition. ‘Now these documents are missing, Bourbon’s in a lot of trouble, especially if word gets out. He’ll lose his job and his reputation. Then Rochefort’s father will be able to take over the school.’

‘What, so you’re saying _Rochefort_ ’s taken these documents, so his father can be Headmaster?’ asked Aramis.

Milady nodded. ‘It’s highly probable … and then Rochefort could “find” these documents and be rewarded for it.’

‘We’ve got to find them, then!’ cried d’Artagnan.

‘No,’ said Milady. ‘If we find the documents, Bourbon won’t listen to us. He thinks we have them, d’Artagnan. What we have to do is _prove_ Rochefort has taken the documents … and quick.’

* * *

Finding information on Rochefort was easier said than done. Although they knew he went to the library after school, Bonacieux had not forgotten Constance and Milady’s prank and he quickly moved away from them at the first opportunity. Constance did have an advantage over the others, though. As a Perseus, she was in the same dorms as Rochefort and the two often sat opposite each other at the breakfast table. Although Rochefort was in the lower set and she the upper, the classes sometimes mixed for History, Geography and Religious Education so she saw more of him during those lessons.

However, they seemed to be getting absolutely nowhere. Rochefort hadn’t mentioned the documents once, not even by Easter, and Bourbon was getting stricter and much more stressed. Aramis and d’Artagnan had come back to find their dorm ransacked; clearly he was getting desperate and actively searching for the documents.

Aramis, d’Artagnan, Porthos, Athos, Milady and Constance were returning from sixth period one Friday after the Easter holidays. They were heading down the corridor towards the dinner hall when Milady collided with someone holding a pile of papers.

‘Oh!’ she exclaimed in surprise. The papers were scattered about the corridor. ‘Here, let me help.’

The six children hurried to pick up the papers for whoever had dropped them. Milady picked one up, and scanned the title. _The Notes of the Most Prestigious Oliver Harthouse_ stared her in the face. These were Harthouse’s notes. She looked up to the thief.

It wasn’t Rochefort. It wasn’t even his father.

It was Pierre.


	11. Secrets sons Révélés

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Have you really spent so long finding things out, to, in the end, not learn the truth after all?'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alas, we have reached the penultimate chapter. All will be revealed ...

‘You!’ exclaimed Milady in horror.

Pierre bundled up the notes. ‘I knew you would come looking for them. You are very much like your father. He, too, could never bear to see a mystery unsolved.’

Milady’s brows furrowed. ‘What would you know about my father?’

‘More than you could ever imagine,’ said Pierre.

‘Why did you steal those notes?’ asked Constance; although her voice was timid, her fists were clenched.

‘It isn’t stealing if you take back something that belongs to you,’ said Pierre, and his voice was oddly dark and ominous for a man who had once seemed so jolly. ‘Come back to my room and all shall be explained, I promise. But you must promise me that whatever you hear does not— _cannot—_ leave the classroom … if it does, I shall be ruined.’

‘If you think we’re not going to tell Bourbon, then you’re wrong,’ said Milady fiercely. ‘You’ve taken notes that are over six-hundred years old! They don’t belong to you!’

‘Milady … or should I say … _Anne_ _de Breuil_ …’ Milady gaped in surprise.

‘How … how do you know that? Nobody knows what my real name is … It’s not even on the system.’

‘Like I said, I know more than you could ever imagine.’ Pierre adjusted the notes in his arms. ‘Are you going to come or not? Have you really spent so long finding things out, to, in the end, not learn the truth after all?’

‘I want to know,’ said Aramis loudly. ‘He has a point, Milady!’

‘It could be a trap,’ protested Constance.

‘Your friends are very intelligent,’ said Pierre, looking at Constance in particular. ‘But I can assure you that there is no trap. M. Treville can vouch for me.’

At the mention of their History teacher, Treville, the six students seemed a little more convinced. They followed Pierre to his classroom, which wasn’t much further down the corridor. He put the notes on his desk, and picked up a vial containing a similarly-coloured liquid to the one he’d drank on Halloween.

‘You were drinking that when we saw you!’ exclaimed Porthos.

‘Yeah,’ said d’Artagnan, ‘what’s it for?’

‘You’re very intelligent,’ he said. ‘Maybe Anne can tell me what it is …’

Milady furrowed her brows. ‘It’s gold … _liquid gold …_ it’s just like—’ She stopped, stunned. ‘No. It’s not possible … it’s not _real_ …’

‘Indeed it is,’ said Pierre. ‘The elixir of life is very real indeed …’

‘B—but how?’ asked Milady. The five others crowded around to see. ‘You’ve been reading Harthouse’s notes! He must have written down how to make it …’

Pierre laughed. ‘Always so quick to jump to conclusions, Anne …’ he commented. ‘Haven’t I told you? These notes belong to me.’

‘Wait!’ exclaimed Constance suddenly. ‘The notes … the elixir … you _are_ Harthouse … aren’t you?’

‘You are a very intelligent girl, Constance,’ he said. ‘Yes … I am.’

‘Then why do you have the notes? Why steal your own notes?’ asked Aramis.

‘Why?’ he repeated. ‘Because I knew Bourbon would accuse you … you see, you did the first part for me, Anne. You already went looking for the notes. And that was sufficient information for Bourbon to accuse you … all you had to do then was find _me_ … although why you took so long is a mystery.’

‘We thought it was Rochefort,’ admitted Milady.

‘Aha, and there is your downfall, dear Anne,’ said Harthouse. ‘You let your suspicions cloud your thoughts. If you only look for evidence around one thing, you shall never uncover the real story.’

‘Please, Monsieur Harthouse, why are you here?’ asked d’Artagnan. ‘And isn’t the elixir of life _Flamel_ ’s creation? Why do you have it?’

‘Very intelligent children … very intelligent indeed,’ said Harthouse. ‘I am here to ensure that my school is led by a headmaster I approve of …’

‘Is that why headmasters keep disappearing?’ asked Athos.

‘Rochefort’s father wants to be headmaster!’ cried Porthos. ‘Please, sir, he’s tryin’ to take Bourbon’s position—’

‘Porthos, good man, I can assure you that Rochefort’s father will have to do some waiting before he is headmaster of this school. As soon as everything is cleared up, these notes will be back where they belong.’

‘So, you’re the one who gets rid of headmasters …’ said Milady darkly. ‘You’re the reason my father disappeared!’

‘Ah, yes, Headmaster de Breuil … I quite liked him …’ said Harthouse slowly. ‘It was a shame, what happened to him … I am quite sorry, but he did have to go … he would not leave; he had too much power …’

‘You got rid of my father! My _father_!’

‘Like I say, Anne,’ he said, ‘he had too much power. He was close to discovering who I was … you have his documents; I assume?’

‘Yes,’ said Milady through gritted teeth.

‘Once this night is over you are not to write down anything that you have been told, and you are to burn those papers immediately. They must not leave this building. If anyone were to discover my existence …’ Harthouse shuddered.

‘Please, what about the elixir of life? That belongs to Nicolas Flamel,’ said d’Artagnan.

‘Ah, yes, him,’ he said, ‘or rather … me. I am Nicolas Flamel. Oliver Harthouse is simply a pseudonym … after all, I couldn’t call myself Nicolas Flamel when said man is supposed to be dead.’

Constance stared at him in surprise. ‘ _Flamel_?’ she questioned. ‘Then … what about your wife, Perenelle?’

Flamel’s eyes were sad. ‘Yes … my wife,’ he said quietly. ‘You see, the elixir of life has a few negative effects. For example, if one were to use it on somebody who was pregnant, it would have the opposite reaction … in short, it would kill the baby.’ He sat down at his desk, and the six children leant over, desperate to hear more. ‘Both Perenelle and I, even after so many years, longed for a child of our own.’

‘But … the elixir …’ said Constance quietly.

‘Indeed …’ said Flamel sadly. He reached out a hand, as if to touch Constance’s, but he drew it back sharply. ‘So Perenelle did something that was both very brave and very foolish … she didn’t take the elixir during her pregnancy. It kept her alive whilst she was still carrying the baby … but for no longer than that …’

‘Oh,’ said Constance sadly, ‘that’s terrible …’

‘What happened to the child?’ asked Porthos.

‘We had a daughter,’ said Flamel, ‘but since I was working at the school at the time, there was no way I could possibly keep her … it was not the right way to bring up a child …’ He glanced at Constance, and then down at his hands. ‘She would be about the same age as you now … twelve, perhaps.’

‘Sir, Constance is the only one of us who is twelve,’ said Aramis.

‘He was just _guessing_ ,’ said Constance. ‘He didn’t know how old I was, did you?’

Flamel smiled a little. ‘I did,’ he said quietly. ‘I’d like to apologise … I did not know the Bonacieux parents would be this way … do forgive me …’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Constance, but her eyes were bright and hopeful.

‘You know exactly what I mean,’ he said.

‘Wait, I don’t understand,’ said d’Artagnan.

‘Jacques isn’t my real brother …’ admitted Constance. ‘I’m adopted … and I’ve never known who my real parents are … until today, it seems …’ She glanced at Flamel, hardly daring to believe his words.

‘And now … you know the truth.’ Flamel stood up and looked at each of the children in turn. ‘Now you see, you must not breathe a word of this to anybody … and to answer a few questions … yes, I took the documents with the intention of leading you here. I had hoped that you would find me sooner, but what’s done is done … we cannot change the past, no matter how much we’d like to. Your friend M. Treville knows of my true identity, but it is unwise for you to speak about me with him … I fear he wishes I had relented and let him have some of the elixir for himself … And Constance, my dearest, you must go home with Jacques when the school year ends. I know this is not what you want to hear … I wish you could come home with me, but it cannot happen … legally, you do not live with me and to take you home would be kidnap.’

* * *

True to Flamel’s word, the documents were safely back in Bourbon’s office by Saturday afternoon. Constance seemed much happier; not even Jacques could get her down. Milady was a little sceptical of Flamel, especially during Alchemy, but it was exciting for all six of them to have a secret that they shared between each other. They did as was requested of them and didn’t mention Flamel to M. Treville. They did not see as much of him anymore, as the days had gotten hotter as summer approached, as well as the end-of-year exams, which took up everybody’s time. They got their results early July, and everyone did particularly well, as was expected. Louis found out from a fellow Sirius, Philippe, that Rochefort was due to move into the upper set in second year.

It felt that as soon as they had arrived, they were packing their things and cleaning their dormitories for a final inspection, and saying goodbye to Treville and Flamel.

D’Artagnan’s first year at Louvre was coming to a close, and it had gone pretty well, if he said so himself.


	12. Seul le Début de l’Aventure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘It’s been a great year, hasn’t it?’ said d’Artagnan. ‘I mean; we’ve discovered more in a year than anyone could hope to in twenty.’

The summer’s sun beamed down bright and hot on the train station. Aramis, d’Artagnan and Louis lugged their suitcases across the platform. ‘There’s Anne,’ said Louis, and hurried away. The Spanish ambassador’s daughter smiled and waved. Aramis’s cheeks flushed red.

Some things never changed.

‘Here, Philippe,’ said a Perseus boy, ‘let me help you.’ He took the suitcase from a boy struggling to carry both his cane and the case and helped him board the train.

After a few minutes, Athos, Milady, Porthos and Constance arrived, and together they found a compartment to sit in. ‘Sorry I was late,’ said Constance. ‘I was saying goodbye to Flamel.’

Aramis pulled out a bag of sweets and offered them around. It was oddly bittersweet, as the train chugged and began to leave the platform. Athos pulled out a pack of cards and he and Porthos began to play.

Milady stared out of the window, watching the school slowly leave her sight. ‘It feels strange, doesn’t it?’ she said. ‘Going home?’

‘No,’ said Constance quietly. ‘I’m not going home … not really.’

‘Louvre is home, now,’ agreed d’Artagnan. ‘I’m going to miss being away all summer.’

‘Me too.’ Porthos turned over a card. ‘I’m gonna miss hot chocolate with Treville, and Alchemy with Flamel.’

‘I’m even going to miss Richelieu,’ said Aramis, taking a lollipop from the bag, ‘as much as I don’t like him.’

‘What did you pick for your second-year subjects?’ asked Athos. ‘I picked History, Advanced War Studies, and Geography.’

‘I picked the same,’ said Porthos, ‘but Construction for the C option.’

‘Oh, great! Maybe we’ll be in some classes together,’ enthused Athos. ‘I wonder what our timetable will be like.’

‘I hope they mix classes more,’ said Constance. ‘I’d like to see more house integration.’

‘I’m excited about being able to get onto the football team next year,’ said d’Artagnan.

‘Oh, yeah!’ cried Porthos. ‘But I heard Rochefort wants to be on it too.’

‘You do realise there are house teams as well as a whole school team?’ said Milady.

‘Oh, brilliant!’ said d’Artagnan. ‘I can’t wait!’

The six students laughed and joked, sharing out sweets and playing games. About fifteen minutes into their journey, Porthos fell asleep and Constance made them hush so that he could get some well-earned rest without being interrupted. She compared report cards with Milady, and both were pleased with their marks in Chemistry and Cultural Studies. Constance had received a B in History, and her lowest mark was a D in Physical Education. Milady laughed at _her_ lowest mark; an F in Religious Education. ‘I told Richelieu to go to hell,’ she whispered, ‘so it’s hardly surprising.’

‘What were the results for the house points again?’ asked Aramis.

‘Oh, you know Sirius were first,’ said Athos. ‘You’re bragging, Aramis.’ He laughed softly.

‘Sirius were first, yes,’ said Aramis, ‘but what about the others?’

‘Sirius, then Perseus, Andromeda, Arcturus were fourth and Cassiopeia were last,’ said Milady. ‘Probably due to the amount of times Richelieu took points off me for _breathing_.’

‘You called him the devil incarnate,’ pointed out Athos.

‘Because he _is_ ,’ insisted Milady, but she laughed.

‘It’s been a great year, hasn’t it?’ said d’Artagnan. ‘I mean; we’ve discovered more in a year than anyone could hope to in _twenty_.’

Constance beamed. ‘I hope these six weeks go quick. If there’s anything I’m excited for next year, it’ll be my first Alchemy lesson as a second-year.’

‘Everything’s going to be different now, isn’t it?’ asked Aramis. ‘To think our Alchemy teacher is none other than Nicolas Flamel … and he’s the founder of Louvre … I bet there’s so much more he hasn’t told us.’

‘He’s made it clear he’s not _going_ to tell us,’ said Milady. ‘We have to find out on our own.’ She reached up and took her suitcase from the shelf. She opened it on her lap and pulled out several sheets of paper. ‘That’s why I kept these.’

D’Artagnan’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘Your father’s notes … you didn’t burn them …’

‘Oh, he’ll be so cross if he finds out you kept them!’ exclaimed Constance.

‘Don’t be silly,’ said Milady. ‘He _knew_ I wouldn’t burn them. They’re the only thing I have of my father … These have hundreds of secrets written in them. Start of next year we should read them properly … I haven’t read everything; there’s got to be loads more he’s written about. Maybe we can find out more about Louvre …’

With a snort and a start, Porthos woke from his sleep. ‘Huh? Wha’ did I miss?’

D’Artagnan was the first to laugh, and then everybody else joined in. ‘We’re talking about next year,’ said Milady. ‘We’ve got lots more to find out about.’

‘It seems that Flamel was just the tip of the iceberg,’ said Aramis. ‘There are many more secrets he’s hidden … and we’re going to find out about them.’

‘Can’t we do some stuff over the holidays?’ asked d’Artagnan. ‘Porthos, you could ask some people at the Court … Milady, you could read the notes so we already have a head start …’

‘Maybe we should get each other’s addresses so we can send letters,’ said Constance. They hurried about, Milady pulling several sheets of paper from her suitcase before zipping it up and putting it back on the shelf. ‘Here, here,’ she said, and they quickly passed the papers around, each writing their address on it so they all had a copy.

The idea that the mysteries surrounding Louvre were not solved greatly appealed to d’Artagnan. It seemed that second year would be just as exciting and mysterious as the first, what with Milady’s papers and the reveal of Pierre’s true identity as Nicolas Flamel.

And so it was, although the end of the school year, only the beginning of the adventure for d’Artagnan and his friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And at last, we have come to a close. Join our Inseparables for second-year in the [sequel](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8069491/chapters/18489604)!


End file.
